


Lucid

by dr_girlfriend



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action, Angst, BAMF!John, Drama, Feels, Happy Ending, I Promise to Never Leave a Work Unfinished, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Not Gonna Tag Every Sex Act Just Trust Me There's Plenty, Oh Look Things Got Mildly Kinky, Oh My God People the FEELS, Other Pairings Will Be a Happy Surprise, Post Reichenbach, Ridiculous Amounts of Hand-Holding, Slow Build, Smut, Some Mild But Extremely Creepy Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 22:22:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 32
Words: 71,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_girlfriend/pseuds/dr_girlfriend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now complete!</p><p><i>The first time it happened was completely by accident.</i>  </p><p>Post-Reichenbach, John finds a way to hold on to Sherlock after all.  </p><p>Prepare yourself for 1.) angst 2.) plot 3.) smut 4.) more smut 5.) even more smut 6.) more plot 7.) happy ending.  But, in apparently WAY too many chapters.  If you're worried about the graphic violence / torture, be aware it's limited to Chapter 30.  Probably canon-typical, but I'd rather over-warn than under-warn.  </p><p>Here's an excerpt, just to give you hope through the angsty first few chapters:</p><p>  <i>"I am going to seduce you, Sherlock Holmes," he rumbled into Sherlock's ear, smiling as Sherlock's breath grew unsteady again. "Not because you need it, but because you deserve it. We both do." He gave Sherlock a squeeze. "Trust me?"</i></p><p>  <i>Sherlock's head lifted, those uncanny pale eyes looking at John with complete sincerity. "I've always trusted you, John."</i></p><p>  <i>John felt the last bit of tension leaving his shoulders. "Good." He kissed Sherlock one more time, swift and soft — a promise. "That's good."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Accident

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ivyblossom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyblossom/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Lucid 清醒梦](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1247431) by [AprilDayEver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AprilDayEver/pseuds/AprilDayEver)



> Is it stalkery to gift a work to someone you don't know? Because I'd like to dedicate this one to ivyblossom, since "The Progress of Sherlock Holmes" was the story to make me a rabid Johnlock fan.
> 
> I write fanfiction for fandom spaces. Please do not add my fics to Goodreads or other indexing sites, excerpt them for press, or in other ways share them outside of fandom spaces. Thanks!

_“There’s just one more thing.  One more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me.  Don’t.  Be.  Dead.  Would you?  Just for me, just stop it.  Stop this.”_

* * *

The first time it happened was completely by accident.  
  
Lestrade had dragged him to the pub again, and two pints in and six months after...well, just _after_...John realized that he was finally able to talk about Sherlock without the crushing weight of guilt and confusion and grief and betrayal squeezing all the air from his lungs.  Greg had mentioned something about the Queen, and John had realized that he had never heard the story of Sherlock going to Buckingham Palace in just a sheet.  By the time he finished telling it they were both giggling helplessly into their beers, tears streaming down their faces.  
  
“Bloody hell he was mad,” Greg said with such fondness that the past tense of the verb hardly hurt at all.  And so, when he gestured to the bartender for two whiskeys and lifted his with a wry “to Sherlock,” John barely hesitated for a second before clinking his glass and draining the lot.  And the next.  And one more after that.  
  
He rumbled home feeling a warm, fuzzy disconnect from life that he hadn’t felt since University, fumbling his keys in the lock and stumbling over his own feet until he crashed into bed.  He rolled over on his back, settling into the lumpy mattress with a sigh.  He closed his eyes, the horrible bare bedsit fading around him, and then suddenly Sherlock was there.

* * *

“John,” he said, the pale eyes entirely unsurprised, that posh coat of his enfolding him like an embrace.    
  
“Sherlock,” John answered, unsurprised as well.  On some level he knew it was impossible, knew that Sherlock was dead, and yet all he felt was happiness, a blinding flash of it like a thunderclap, settling into a soft feeling of blissful peace.  “You’re back,” he said, not even caring how stupidly obvious he sounded.  He let the glow of warm contentment show on his face, watched those unearthly beautiful eyes flicker over him, reading his expression, and  _—_  even more miraculously  _—_  slowly returning it.  
  
“Come here, then,” John said, opening up his arms.  Like magic, there he was, somehow fitting comfortably into John’s arms like he were meant to be there, despite all his long limbs and sharp elbows.  John buried his face in the curve of his neck, breathing in everything that was Sherlock  _—_  the smell of his skin, the faint odor of chemicals, slightly damp wool and a hint of gunpowder.  
  
“I want to be back at Baker Street with you,” John confessed, and again like magic they were there, curled up on the couch together, the street noises familiar and comforting through the half-open window.  John could hear Mrs. Hudson puttering around downstairs even as Sherlock nestled closer.  
  
 _Lucid dreaming_ , some part of John’s brain was telling him.  His mind was guiding the dream, shifting events to suit his fancy.  He didn’t care.  He simply pulled Sherlock more tightly against him, stroking those dark curls, and let himself feel truly happy for the first time in half a year.

* * *

He woke up with a pounding headache, a fuzzy mouth, and grief spiking sharply through his chest in a way he hadn’t felt since the first weeks.  He stood under the stream of the shower, shaky and uncertain.  He felt like he had regained Sherlock and lost him again all in one night.  He hadn’t realized how much the pain of Sherlock’s loss had faded into a dull, numbing misery.  Now the newly-raw edge of grief was almost unbearable, but the happiness had been...the happiness had been...  
  
 _“Fuck,”_ he told himself, pressing his sweating forehead against the cool tile of the shower wall.  
  
He tried to tell himself that it was a one-off.  That he wouldn’t do it again if he could.  That lie lasted all of three hours, until he found himself researching lucid dreaming.  First wikipedia, then scholarly articles, then message boards, his mind filing away a mental catalogue of triggers.  Meditation, sleep interruption, daytime napping...  
  
He tried them all over the next two weeks, embarrassment flushing his face even alone in his bedsit as he stared at his own palm, solemnly instructing himself to become self-aware in his dreams.  
  
Nothing worked, and so on Friday a fortnight later John found himself sitting in his dark office at the surgery, long after the others had gone home, just thinking.  He thought about his father  _—_  the violent drunken rages that had terrorized his childhood.  He thought about Harry, alone in her sad apartment without Clara, drinking wine at two in the afternoon.  He thought about it all, long and hard, and then he stopped on the way home and bought a six-pack of beer and a bottle of whiskey.

* * *

 


	2. The Blackout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't need to say, do I, that no one should attempt to access lucid dreaming through alcohol intoxication? Total artistic license on my part.

“I knew you’d get it, John,” was the first thing Sherlock said to him, beaming with pride, and that in itself should have broken the illusion  The real Sherlock would have snapped at John impatiently.  Something crisp and biting, wondering why it had taken him so long to get it right, when it was _so obvious, John, a trained monkey would have stumbled upon the solution faster_.  And yet...once again, it didn’t matter.  It didn’t matter that it wasn’t real, that it was all in his head, because it was _Sherlock_ , he was back, and it was real _enough_.  
  
“Come here,” John said.  And here again should have been a little niggle of dissonance -- the real Sherlock would never be so pliable, so complaisant, as to bound forward without a word, nestling softly into John’s arms.  The real Sherlock was manic energy or indolent langour, lightning in a bottle or a slow deep tidal pull.  He was not, of all things, a _cuddler_.  And yet here, in the tenuous twilight of John’s lucid dreams, he was.  He looped his long arms around John and squeezed him tight.  He returned John’s soft whispers with his own, their breaths mingling.  Never once did he scoff at the pedestrian nature of it all;  instead he returned John’s tentative caresses, and answered his _Don’t leave me again, Sherlock_ with gentle reassurances.   _I’m here, John.  I won’t leave you. Never again._  His warm breath huffed against John’s ear, making him shiver.

* * *

In the harsh light of morning, sunlight spearing through his gritty eyes and into his pounding brain, John mocked himself mercilessly.  The very idea, that Sherlock would do such things  _—_  would say such things.  Of course John’s mundane little brain couldn’t simulate the true genius of Sherlock’s conversation, the inspired flights of brilliance.  No, this dream-Sherlock was a pale imitation created by John’s piddling consciousness.  It was John making him say these insipid platitudes, John’s pathetic yearning that made Sherlock appear to return his affection.  It was embarrassing, and unhealthy, and pitiable, and John couldn’t stop doing it any more than he could cut his own heart out.  
  
He developed a careful ritual, trying to walk a tightrope that would keep in check the twin demons of his predisposition to alcoholism and his equally insidious addiction to Sherlock.  He felt them both like a fire in his blood  _—_  the craving for _just a little more, just one more drink, just one more dream..._  
  
With the decisiveness of a doctor and the discipline of a soldier, he constructed a series of rules.  Only on Friday night, when he had the weekend to recover.  A careful number of drinks  _—_  beer, beer, whiskey, whiskey, whiskey  _—_  timed out scrupulously.  Too fast and he would bypass the lucid dream and lapse into unconsciousness; too slow and he would lie awake, staring despairingly at the cracked ceiling of his bedsit, the alcohol buzzing in his system but Sherlock still cold and dead in his grave.    
  
Even with his ritual in place it still went wrong now and again.  Once he even experienced a few hours of blackout, a gaping empty maw in his memories; cups of tea cooling on the table that he didn’t remember making and a whinging self-pitying entry in his blog queue (thankfully unpublished) that he didn’t remember writing.  
  
He told himself that the blackout was a wake-up call.  He had to stop this, it was classic self-destructive behavior.  He couldn’t live his whole week waiting for Friday, waiting to dream of a man who was dead in his grave and hadn’t even returned his feelings when he was alive.  He should be recovering from his grief by now; he should be letting Sherlock go, not clinging more tightly to him.  The dreams were starting to seem like the only real thing in his life, vibrant and warm while the dull misery of his waking life was taking on the shadowy, distant quality of a dream.    
  
By late afternoon he stood at the bathroom sink, popping the caps of the beers one by one, tipping them until they glugged down the drain.  He could feel his shoulders tensing, his whole body revolting, but he doggedly twisted the cap off the whiskey and poured it down the drain as well.  
  
“Right,” he told himself sternly.  “That’s done.  Enough now.”  Then he lay on his bed, shivering and shaking, the bedsit filling with the sour smell of the alcohol he sweated out of his pores.  
  
That Friday night he worked as late as he could in the surgery, trying to distract himself.  When there was nothing left to do  _—_  the final EMR completed and closed and his office tidied   _—_  he sighed, letting his head hang wearily for a moment before he started back to the bedsit.  He couldn’t even call it “home” inside his own mind.  Home was a flat on Baker Street, no doubt let to someone else by now, the belongings of two men  _—_  one dead and one only half-alive -- packed away into boxes by strange hands.  Home was Sherlock, and Sherlock was gone.  He had severed the last tenuous thread connecting them.  
  
He bypassed the Tube stop and walked back, keeping his head doggedly down as he passed every liquor store.  The buzz of the city was white noise in his head, hardly perceptible over the dull roar of his own grief, streetlights pinwheeling from the dampness gathering at the corner of his eyes.  He forced himself to put cheese between bread, choking down the cold sandwich, before lying in his bed.  
  
He gritted his teeth, pressing his forearm to his eyes, willing himself to sleep.  The first dry sob caught him by surprise, a harsh breath that suddenly turned into something more.  Then it was inevitable, unavoidable, as he curled up into himself, his shoulders shaking helplessly under the force of his sobbing.    
  
When it was finally over he turned on his back, wiping the dampness from his face with an angry wrist.  “Watson, you git,” he snarled at himself.  “Pull yourself together, man.”  He forced himself up for a glass of water, knowing the pounding in his head was pure dehydration this time, unaided by alcohol.  Was this the way it was going to be, then?  
  
He thought of endless days stretching out before him.  His work at the surgery.  The occasional drink with Lestrade, but how long would that last without Sherlock to connect them?  Even the dim glimmer of a future that had sustained him after Afghanistan -- maybe he would meet someone, have a girlfriend and perhaps even a family someday  _—_  was gone.  He didn’t want that anymore and never would, the last vestige of normality burned to ashes by the all-consuming conflagration that had been Sherlock.  He thought of the gun in the drawer, suddenly feeling its weight in his hand so vividly that his palm twitched, shocked to find itself empty.  
  
He took in a deep breath, hissing it out slowly between his teeth, and by the time his lungs were empty his mind was made up.  He washed his face and dressed carefully, checking his watch.  The liquor stores were still open.  It was madness what he was doing, but it seemed almost inevitable.  Hadn’t he cast his lot in with madness from the moment he met Sherlock?  He had experienced one night with the prospect of no Sherlock in his life, and already he knew that he couldn’t do it.  He had this last tenuous thread, and he would grasp it for as long as he could.  If it drove him to the bottle, if it drove him to true madness, then that was the chance he would take.  That was the future, and this was tonight.  And tonight, if he was lucky, he would dream.  
  
He went out to buy a six-pack of beer and a bottle of whiskey, closing the door of the bedsit behind him with finality.


	3. The Shift

He pressed his face into dream-Sherlock’s neck, breathing in his warmth and scent.  He ran his fingers through the soft curls, distantly noting that they were never any longer or shorter, frozen in time.  He didn’t care.  Those kinds of details bothered him only when he was awake, in retrospect.  In the grim light of morning he would flagellate himself with these small observations, but in the hazy delirious dreamspace they didn’t matter at all.  The only thing that mattered was that when he traced his fingers through the curls, tugging a little, Sherlock sighed in pleasure and nuzzled into the top of his head in return.

He took in a deep shuddering breath, and then let it out along with the question he had been holding inside him since the day he met Sherlock.

“Why me?” he asked.  “I’m so...ordinary.”  He felt a flush of shame creep up his neck.  He hadn’t meant to expose himself so much.

Sherlock breathed deeply, and John thought at first that he wouldn’t answer.  What could he say, after all?  His voice, when it came, was a surprise — the deep rich baritone purring around John, soothing the raw edges of his nerves.

“Never ordinary, John.  How could you think that?”  The deep voice resonated with gentle reproof.  “You have always been different from the rest.  Surprising.  Confounding.”  Sherlock paused, and placed a kiss on the crown of John’s head that sent pleasure rippling down his spine.  “Extraordinary,” Sherlock breathed into his hair.  “My John.”     

John pressed his face deeper into Sherlock’s neck, joy bursting from his heart and radiating out toward his fingertips.

* * *

  
As usual, he mocked himself brutally for it the next day.  He lay in the tangle of sweat-sour sheets, the taste of stale whiskey and self-loathing bitter on his tongue.  How pathetic was he, how irreparably _broken_ , that this was his idea of a _relationship_?  His own subconscious, putting words of affection and reassurance in the mouth of a phantom.  

There was no good end to this.  The only question was in exactly which way it would all go to hell, and yet...

_Extraordinary.  My John._

Now that the first flush of shame and self-recrimination was fading, John felt an echo of the joy that had washed over him at the words.  And he already knew that next Friday he would do it again.

  


* * *

  
John opened his eyes, the familiar blissful haze thrumming through him as he saw Sherlock standing in the doorway.  He absently noted that his lucid dreaming was becoming even more vivid — everything seemed a little bit sharper, a little bit more clear.  Even Sherlock looked a bit different — his hair shorter, his face thinner.

John opened his arms in welcome, as usual.  “Come here then, love.”

Mild surprise penetrated his floaty, comfortable haze as Sherlock seemed to linger in the doorway.  That was new.  Sherlock suddenly bounded forward, falling to his knees beside the bed.

“John...I —” he started, the words stopping with a stammer as John’s hand came up to cup his cheek, thumb tracing the sharp cheekbone soothingly.

“S’allright,” John slurred.  Sherlock looked worried, and that wasn’t right.  He reached down, pulling at Sherlock’s collar, and then his sleeve, until Sherlock was up on the bed next to him.  That was better.  This was how things were supposed to be.

John buried his face into Sherlock’s neck.  It was cooler than it usually was, slightly rain-dampened, but the scent was even more vivid than usual.  John breathed it in for a just a moment before feeling Sherlock jerk back in — surprise?  alarm?

“John...” Sherlock started again.  John distantly noted that Sherlock was shaking, a fine tremor throughout his body.  How odd.  Almost like Sherlock was scared.  Maybe his subconscious was twisting things again.  It made sense now that he thought of it.  Sherlock had always reassured John in these dreams.  Now his subconscious wanted to be the one doing the reassuring.  Well, fair enough, he could do that.

He pulled Sherlock closer, tangling their bodies together in the familiar way, rubbing his back and murmuring into the skin of his collarbone.

“It’s okay, Sherlock.  Hush.  I’ve got you.  I won’t let you fall.”

He felt Sherlock take one sharp stuttering breath against his hair, and then another.  Then the fine tremor turned into a shudder.  John held him tightly, soothing him with one hand through his hair and another tracing gentle circles on his shuddering back as Sherlock shook with suppressed, ragged sobs.

“I’ve got you, love.  I’ve got you.  I won’t let you fall.”


	4. The Awakening

John groaned, his forearm over his eyes, delaying that painful moment when the sunlight would pierce his aching skull.  He thought back on last night’s dream, his brow furrowing with confusion.   _What the hell was that?_  His subconscious must be even more twisted than he had realized.

“John?”  The voice came from inches away from his ear and John was half-scrambling, half-falling from the bed before he realized it.  The next thing he knew his shoulderblades were pressed to the wall, his hand reflexively moving to the small of his back to grasp the butt of a gun that of course wasn’t there.

He squinted through the harsh sunlight, mouth dry and head thumping, and his heart stuttered in his chest.  Sherlock lay on the bed, luminous in the late-morning sunlight.  As John watched he pushed up on one elbow, head tilted slightly, those unearthly pale eyes sharply focused on John’s face as if collating data on his reaction.

_This is it.  I’ve cracked_ , John thought, and the realization was surprisingly reassuring.  He had wondered where his ridiculous obsession would lead, it was almost a relief to know.  Even as his blood roared in his ears and his head swam, he clicked through the possibilities in the back of his mind.   _Depression with psychotic features, or true psychotic break?  A once-a-week binge shouldn’t be enough to induce hallucinations associated with delirium tremens, but perhaps a diathesis-stress response..._

For just a moment Sherlock’s face shadowed with some expression John had never seen before, and almost as quickly his features fell back into his usual calm mask of diffidence.

“Don’t look like that, John, for Christ’s sake.  You’re not going mad,” he said crisply.

_My hallucination is trying to reassure me of my sanity.  That is just...wrong._  John felt a hysterical giggle bubble up inside him, and suppressed it sternly.

Sherlock pushed himself to sitting, his feet flat on the floor.  His mouth twisted strangely for a moment, and then he spoke again, his voice suddenly rough.  “I...I didn’t die, John.  I never died.”

In a sudden, jerky movement, he was in front of John.  John hadn’t even realized that he had thrown his arms up to ward him off until one slim-fingered hand wrapped around his forearm.

_“John,”_ Sherlock said, urgently.

A shock seemed to go through John where their skin touched.  He stared down at Sherlock’s hand on his skin, his thoughts racing.   _Slightly ragged cuticles nicotine stains he’s smoking again multisensory integrated hallucinations almost impossible level of detail is too much I hear him I feel him he’s here bloodyfuckingChrist Sherlock not dead never died..._

The room seemed to tilt and sway as his thoughts realigned to this new information.  Sherlock, here, alive, never dead at all.  He felt the questions rising up, so many that they stopped up his throat.   _How why what why why why why?_  He tried to force one out through his dry throat, and felt a rush of bile instead.

The expression on Sherlock’s face was almost comical as he released his grip on John’s arm just in time, allowing him to lurch into the bathroom.  John fell to his knees in front of the toilet more easily than he should have as his bad leg folded under him.  Then he was heaving, the alcohol and curry dinner emptying in a rush, followed by endless, shivering dry heaves.

When it was finally over he spat and flushed, and then pressed his head against the cold porcelain of the toilet, focusing on the coolness, trying to breathe again.  He was shaking, his legs like jelly underneath him, cold sweat prickling all over his body.

He could feel Sherlock hovering at his side and squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying to come to terms with something so fundamentally inconceivable that it felt like his head was going to burst.

“You shouldn’t drink, John,” Sherlock said, the sonorous voice tinged with censure.  “Not with your family history.”

John suppressed another hysterical giggle.

“John?”  Sherlock’s voice was oddly hesitant.  “Open your eyes, John.  Look at me.”

Time seemed to skip for a moment, because the next thing John knew he was on his feet again, a roar of rage still ringing in his ears that he belatedly realized had come from his own throat.  He had Sherlock pushed back against the wall, one hand tight around his neck and another at his shoulder, holding him with his back awkwardly arched over the towel rack as Sherlock’s feet slid and skittered on the tile floor, trying to find purchase.  Their faces were inches away.

_“‘Look at me, John?’”_ he hissed.  “How dare you?  How _dare_ you ever ask that of me again?”  He felt the words spilling from his mouth in a torrent, unstoppable.  “‘Keep your eyes fixed on me,’ you said.  ‘Will you do this for me,’ you said.  Well I _did_ it.  I kept my eyes fixed on you while you jumped, while you fell, while you lay _dead on the ground_ with your _fucking_ blood on the pavement, so don’t you _dare_ ask anything like that of me again, do you hear me?  Don’t you dare ask.  If you ask one more thing of me I’m getting my gun and I swear to _God_ you mad bastard I don’t know which of our heads I’ll be pointing it at.”

Sherlock’s eyes were wide, translucent gray in his pale face.  He opened his mouth but only a raspy croak came out.  John realized in horror that he was choking him, and he pulled his hands off of him as if he had been burned.  He took a step back, chest heaving, as Sherlock pulled in a ragged breath and straightened his shirt, eying him cautiously.  He watched, the sudden rage draining from him, as the marks of his fingers faded from white to pink on Sherlock’s neck.

“Bloody buggering _fuck_ ,” he said as the post-adrenaline shakes started to set in.  

“Well...yes,” Sherlock said, his mouth quirking with a hint of a smile, the mad bugger.

“Not dead, then,” John repeated, trying it out.

“No.”

John scrubbed a hand over his face, desperately wanting coffee.  “So you come back from the dead, ten months later, and what?  Just decide you’re going to crawl into bed with me, yeah?  Just to give me the fright of my life, was it?”

A strange expression crossed Sherlock’s face and he dropped his eyes, fidgeting slightly.  “You asked me to.”

“I asked  _—_  ”  The world seemed to tilt again as John remembered the dream from last night.  Remembered dream-Sherlock, so different from how he usually looked, so different from how he usually acted.   _Not a dream at all, in fact._  Bloody fuck, what had he _said_?

He closed his eyes.  “Get out.”

“John!”  Sherlock’s voice was strained, urgent, and when John’s eyes snapped open his face was...devastated.

“Out of the _bathroom_ , you git,” John clarified, tamping down hard on the urge to reach for him.  “Go make coffee for the first time in your bloody life or something.  I’m going to shower and get dressed and then we will sit down and you can explain to me what in the bloody _hell_ is going on, yeah?”

Relief showed naked on Sherlock’s face for just a moment before he rearranged his features into a calm mask.  “Yes,” he said.  “Yes.  Good.  Excellent.”

They stood staring at each other for long moments.  Finally Sherlock seemed to rouse himself.  “I’ll just...”

“Yeah,” John said with a start, pressing back against the tub so that Sherlock could slip by him and out of the bathroom.  “Yeah.”

He turned blindly toward the tub, making a show of turning the taps as the door closed behind him, before sitting on the edge of the tub weakly.

“Sherlock.  Bloody buggering _fuck_ ,” he said to himself.


	5. The Agreement

John stood under the spray of the shower, still shaking with reaction.  His thoughts were in a mad tumble.    
  
 _“You asked me to,”_ Sherlock had said, and what the fuck did _that_ mean?  John suspected, but he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it.  If his dream last night had not been a dream at all, then...  
  
 _Come here, love,_ he had said. _I’ve got you, love.  I won’t let you fall._  
  
John groaned aloud, stifling the impulse to bash his head against the tiles.  Had he really said those ridiculous things, not just aloud, but to _Sherlock?_  In the hazy dreamspace those kind of words came naturally.  Dream-Sherlock understood how John felt about him  _—_  not only understood, he _reciprocated._  Those type of reassurances were commonplace between them.  
  
John felt an irrational spike of anger at the real Sherlock.  It was almost as if the man’s reappearance had stolen something from him, taken dream-Sherlock away.  Christ, maybe he was going mad after all.  And if it hadn’t been a dream, if that had been real-Sherlock last night, what the hell had happened?  Had he really crawled into bed with John?  Wrapped his arms around him, even cried on his shoulder?  Impossible.  
  
 _Sentiment?_ John imagined Sherlock scoffing.   _Don’t be ridiculous, John._    
  
He went through the motions of showering automatically, cringing inwardly as his still-numb fingers fumbled over the cap of the shampoo four times before he was able to flip it.  The mix of hangover, violent vomiting, and adrenaline reaction had turned his muscles to jelly.  His mind was scattered, barely able to follow a train of thought for a moment before being derailed by a riot of confusion and emotion, a constant stream of images flashing through his head.  Dream-Sherlock whispering in his ear, Sherlock falling from the roof of St. Bart’s, Sherlock’s throat under his fingers, Sherlock rain-dampened in his arms...and through it all, like the throbbing of his pulse, the drumbeat of euphoria  _—_   _Alive, alive, alive, alive._  
  
He brushed his teeth and carefully shaved, knowing on some level that he was stalling.  He wrapped a towel around his waist, foolishly wishing that he had brought a change of clothes into the bathroom with him.  He didn’t need to feel even more exposed before Sherlock, but there was no helping it.  Finally, he took a deep breath before opening the bathroom door, not sure if he were more afraid that Sherlock would be there or that he would be gone, a hallucination after all.  
  
Even prepared as he was, the sight of Sherlock still struck John like a blow.  He was puttering around in the kitchen but he lifted his head as soon as the bathroom door opened.  John felt Sherlock’s gaze flicking over him like a physical touch, skittering across his body, lingering on his face, his unsteady hands, the gnarled scar on his shoulder.  John imagined the string of deductions  _—_   _shaving with a blade now instead of electric, nicked your throat when your hands shook_   _—_  but Sherlock was uncharacteristically silent for once.  Neither of them spoke as John turned his back and awkwardly started to pull his clothes on.  
  
When he turned around again Sherlock was still in the small kitchen, staring doggedly into the sink.  John self-consciously pulled open his desk drawer, retrieving his gun.  He checked the chamber and safety before tucking it securely into the small of his back, pulling his jumper down to cover it.  The familiar weight of it, long-absent, seemed to steady him.  
  
The electric kettle started to click just as John got to the kitchen doorway.  Sherlock finally lifted his gaze, his eyes flashing over John and then away, before he held up the coffee tin.    
  
“I couldn’t find your coffeemaker,” he said.  
  
“It’s instant,” John said, and then had to stifle a laugh as Sherlock managed to look both flabbergasted and affronted at the same time.  
  
 _“Instant?”_ he repeated, as if personally insulted.  “There is such a thing?”  
  
John couldn’t help it, his amusement breaking free in a soft huff.  “You likely deleted it.  Quite rightly, I’m afraid.”  
  
John had to dig through a cabinet briefly to find the honey that Sherlock favored, but then he fixed tea for Sherlock and coffee for himself, swallowing down the lump in his throat at the familiar sight of two cups together.  Sherlock had skittered out of the kitchen as soon as John had entered, and was now sitting in the only chair at the small desk.  
  
John handed him the cup and sat on the bed opposite, finally letting himself take in the reality of Sherlock Holmes, alive and well in his miserable little flat.  
  
In the chaos and emotion of earlier events, he hadn’t been fully able to mark the changes in him.  His hair was shorter, and somewhat shaggy, as if he had cut the curls away himself.  His face was thinner, lines at the eyes and across his wide brow that hadn’t been there before.  He held himself stiffly in the chair, his torso upright despite his slumped shoulders and sprawled legs.  John’s doctor’s eye marked the stiffness  _—_  a cracked rib maybe, or something else.  
  
“Just a scratch,” Sherlock remarked, his uncanny mind-reading powers apparently unabated.  “Nothing to be concerned about.”  
  
“Right,  Of course.”  John tamped down hard on the urge to roll his eyes.  ‘Just a scratch’ for Sherlock encompassed anything from a superficial laceration to a perforated intestine.  
  
He continued to regard Sherlock.  More notable than even the physical changes was the change in his demeanor.  The nicotine-stained fingers fidgeted, wrapping around the tea mug for only a moment before fluttering away to pull at the fabric of his trousers or drum on the desk.  Instead of the unnervingly direct gaze John was used to, Sherlock hardly seemed to know where to look, his eyes skimming across John’s face in only brief glances before wandering around the rest of the flat, sparse as it was.  His expression, usually so diffident, was constantly changing as if he were buffeted by a flux of emotions too overpowering to mask.  A door slammed down the hall and Sherlock startled, sloshing tea over the edge of his mug.  He wiped it up carelessly with the cuff of his shirt, the bared bony wrists exposed by the too-short sleeves striking John as shockingly vulnerable.  
  
“Sherlock?” He found himself saying softly, not even sure what he was asking. _‘Hasn’t anyone been taking care of you?’_ flew through his mind.  
  
Sherlock raised his head finally, his gaze meeting John’s almost defiantly.  “You’ve got questions,” he stated crisply, sending John’s errant thoughts back to a moment in a cab, less than a day after they had met, Sherlock’s deep voice unspooling John’s life before him.  
  
“When was the last time you ate?” John asked.  
  
Sherlock’s mouth twisted, and for a heart-stopping moment John thought he might cry.  He tipped his head back instead, blinking rapidly, but his voice when he spoke was carefully nonchalant.  “I don’t remember.  It hardly matters.”  
  
John cleared his throat around a lump of emotion as well.  “That’s where you’re wrong, mate.” _It matters to me,_ he just barely kept himself from saying.  He set his coffee cup on the desk with a decisive clink.  “Here’s what’s going to happen," he said, his voice firm and commanding, a tone he rarely used with Sherlock.  "I’m going to make us breakfast.  You’re going to eat every last bite.  Then I’m going to look at this scratch of yours.  And then, you can be damned certain, I am going to ask you every question that I have.  And you are going to answer every one.”  
  
This felt like second nature to John.  Pushing the bigger issues aside and taking care of the here-and-now.  Mortars might be falling outside, but John stayed focused on the wounded soldier on his table.  And one thing was apparent  _—_  whatever had happened, it had wounded Sherlock.  He had suffered  _—_  was still suffering  _—_  and Sherlock’s reasons for doing what he had were markedly less important to John now that he had seen it.  
  
Sherlock kept his head tilted back, his eyes closed now.  “Yes.  Fine.”  
  
“All right,” John said.  “All right.”  He started to stand, but couldn’t bring himself to step away from Sherlock.  He needed, just for a moment  _—_  just a touch to know that he was real.  His body betrayed him, his hand reaching for Sherlock’s before his mind could tell him what a bad idea it was.  The first touch of his fingers had Sherlock startling, his hand jerking on his thigh as his head snapped forward.  John forced himself to meet the startled gaze unwaveringly, his left hand clasping Sherlock’s right hand awkwardly in some semblance of a handshake.  
  
“I’m...I’m glad to see you again, Sherlock,” he said, his voice raspy with emotion.  
  
He started to draw away and then Sherlock’s hand was suddenly gripping his -- desperately, ferociously, as if he were drowning and John were his only lifeline.  He watched as Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut tight, seeming to struggle with some emotion, before finally his face eased.  His fingers loosened their grip and then pulled away, Sherlock blunderingly patting John’s hand before wrapping his own back around his mug of tea.  
  
“Yes,” he said, blinking rapidly again.  “Good.”  


	6. The Injury

"Bloody  _hell_ , Sherlock!"

"Don't be dramatic, John, it's not that bad," Sherlock scoffed. Then he ruined the effect by adding uncertainly, "Is it?" as he craned this way and that, trying to get a better view.

"Stay  _still_ , you git!" John placed one hand solidly on Sherlock's shoulder and another on his hip, pressing him down on the bed. "Let me take a look."

Sherlock subsided with an indignant huff. John ignored his petulant expression, focusing instead on his injuries. His pale torso was mottled with bruises, in vivid shades ranging from yellow to purple. John's eyes skimmed over them, parsing the injuries into two likely assaults, one several weeks ago and one just a few days ago.

John's stomach roiled to see the darkening smudges from his own fingers around Sherlock's neck, a macabre decoration on that pale, endless throat. He gently pressed against Sherlock's ribs, testing for fractures, before finally focusing on the gash. It had to have been fairly deep, starting below his ribs on his left side and curving around almost to his hip in the back. John realized Sherlock must have been twisting away from the knife as it cut.

John's gloved fingers gently probed at the wound. The stitches were small and neat at the start of the gash, but quickly grew sloppier before tapering out altogether at Sherlock's side. John shook his head as he realized what he was looking at. "Bloody hell," he repeated. "You sewed this yourself, didn't you? Using...dental floss, was it?"

Sherlock only pursed his mouth peevishly.

"And just how many times did you pass out in the process?" John asked.

Sherlock's eyes flicked down to John's guiltily before he tipped his chin up, staring back up at the ceiling in a sulk. "That's what I thought," John said heavily.

Sherlock hissed in a sharp breath as John touched a spot near the back, where the wound was red and puffy.

"A bit infected, but still localized, luckily," John concluded. "This happened a few days ago, I presume?" Sherlock produced a noncommittal hum that John chose to interpret as agreement. "I'll clean it, and I'll have to pull these stitches and redo them properly. Try to minimize the scarring."

Sherlock made a noise of dismissal, apparently unconcerned with the idea of a scar, but John anchored him firmly to the bed with his hand on one of the few areas of pale, unmarked skin. "It has to be done, Sherlock. The floss did in a pinch, but it's going to adhere, and likely make a mess when it comes out anyway. Best to do it right."

He didn't even wait for a response, turning away to prepare an injection of intravenous antibiotic. Local anaesthetic was next, and he ignored Sherlock's impatient shifting, laying out his implements carefully and bringing the wastebasket closer, making sure the anaesthetic had time to kick in before he got started.

"This is no time for stoicism. Let me know if you feel it, and let me know if you get nauseous," he warned sternly, tapping a foot meaningfully against the wastebasket and waiting for Sherlock's curt nod before getting started.

He felt the clear steadiness of the procedure settle over him, the effects of his shock and hangover disappearing as his hands worked deftly, mending Sherlock's torn flesh with small neat sutures. It wasn't the first time he had patched up Sherlock by a longshot, but it was the first time he had his hands on him since he realized how he truly felt about the man. As his hands worked on autopilot, his brain was unfortunately free to struggle with exactly what that meant.

John hadn't been completely oblivious to his feelings for Sherlock before...well,  _before_. As dense as Sherlock might think him, he had not been fool enough to believe that what he felt for Sherlock could be categorized under anything as simple as  _flatmate_ , or even  _best friend_. And yet he hadn't fully acknowledged it, maybe even to himself, and certainly not to Sherlock.

The reasons, stacked up at the time, had seemed so compelling. John had examined them all, ruminated over them endlessly, in the time after the Fall, when every thought had been some version of  _if only I had..._  and  _why didn't I?_

John's own uncertainties about himself were first on the list. He had never been in a relationship with a man, had never considered his occasional admiration for a stubbled jaw or bare chest to be anything more than a fleeting thought. Through Harry's emotional coming-out, John was certainly aware of the many shades of sexuality, and he thought he would have owned up to bisexuality if he honestly thought it applied. Rather, John had always liked women. He knew that about himself. Even in the Army, where homoerotic horseplay and furtive handjobs abounded, John had kept himself distant, his role as doctor a good enough reason to avoid sexual entanglements. It was hard enough to push aside emotion when a friend and comrade lay bleeding in the sand, the idea of muddling those relationships with sexual intimacy bothered John on several levels.

He hadn't felt more than a fleeting attraction to men before he met Sherlock, and he didn't feel it after Sherlock was gone. No, what he felt for Sherlock was so different from simple, easy, sexual attraction. In the welter of regrets after Sherlock was gone, he had told himself that perhaps it was because it  _was_  so unique, so unprecedented, that he hadn't recognized it for what it had been until it was too late. That immediate affinity, passing for friendship, binding John to Sherlock with tendrils of admiration, and adrenaline, and ultimately affection.

_["You're very loyal, very quickly," Mycroft had said.]_

And then came the cases, and the camaraderie, tightening the bonds so completely, so thoroughly, that the sexual attraction had snuck up on him unawares. Even in retrospect, he had trouble pinning down when it had started. When exactly the straining buttons on Sherlock's dress shirts had no longer made him look like an overgrown child, and had instead made John's heart lurch. And by then, John was too worried about jeopardizing everything, too uncertain of where Sherlock stood. Too  _cowardly_.

_[Remembering how Sherlock's gaze had flicked over him during their first meal at Angelo's. "While I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any..."]_

And so John had hidden his feelings, counting on Sherlock's biggest blind spot, his understanding of others' emotions. Tried to pass it off even to himself as a simple crush, an inconvenient attraction to a brilliant man, that would fade with time. Only in the last few days, in the madness of Moriarty's final game, had it seemed like it could possibly be more.

_["Take my hand," Sherlock had said, and John had twined their fingers together without hesitation, the press of Sherlock's sweaty palm against his sending a jolt through his heart despite the circumstances.]_

In the madness of those final days he had almost been grateful for the distraction keeping Sherlock's mind fixed on Moriarty. Helping to obscure from the greatest mind he had ever known the simple truth — that John Watson had fallen hopelessly, helplessly in love with Sherlock Holmes.

_["My hostage," Sherlock had said, aiming a pistol at John's head. "That works," John had replied.]_

And now Sherlock was back, Sherlock was  _alive_ , and John was paralyzed again. All those reasons he had dismissed, thinking Sherlock dead, wishing fervently that he could have the chance to do it differently. And now that chance was here, and he was struck dumb again, immobilized by confusion and fear.

 **[** _“There’s stuff you wanted to say...but didn’t say it,” Ella had said, afterwards.  “Say it now.”  “No.  I’m sorry, I can’t,” John had said even then.]_

His eyes flicked suddenly to Sherlock's, worried that his damnably expressive face might have been broadcasting his thoughts. Fortunately Sherlock had his eyes closed, his head still tilted back, taking in steady breaths through his nose.

John cleared the raspiness from his throat. "Turn over — gently now. Try not to pull on the sutures," he instructed. He helped Sherlock settle again on his front so that he could stitch where the wound curled around his back.

His hands began their work again, only a few more sutures needed on this side before John tied a careful knot and cut the thread. Sherlock's back was pale and lean, less mottled with bruising than his front, his shoulderblades stark and elegant flanking the graceful sweep of his spine.

 _Christ, he's lovely_ , John thought, before immediately chastising himself for the thought.

"John?" Sherlock asked uncertainly.

With a start, John realized that while he had been lost in thought the hand bracing Sherlock's right hip had been absent-mindedly tracing slow circles with his thumb, caressing him. Sherlock's body was tense beneath his hands.

 _Goddammit_ , John thought, frustrated beyond belief with his traitorous body as he felt a warm flush color his face. "Er...just a minute." He scrambled desperately for a reason to keep Sherlock from seeing his face, certain that it would reveal everything. "I'll just put a dressing on this side, and wrap it around to the front."

He took an exceptionally long time preparing and affixing the dressing, wrestling his errant thoughts under control, until he felt that he could face Sherlock with some degree of composure.

"Over now," he said, and Sherlock obediently flipped, letting John smooth the dressing over the stitches in front.

John pulled off the nitrile gloves, tossing them in the wastebasket. "Best to wrap those ribs too, just in case," he said, reaching for the elastic bandage.

" _Stop it_ , John." Sherlock's voice was sharp as his hand whipped out to still John's wrist. "Are you...are you  _trying_  to be cruel?"

"What?" John's mind felt cloudy and dull, his mouth gaping open before he managed to shut it.

Sherlock's eyes were fierce, his fingers digging painfully into John's wrist. "You  _must_  want to know...I've been preparing for your questions, for  _almost a year_  I've been preparing...why won't you  _ask_? Don't you — " The sharp eyes suddenly shifted away, Sherlock's grip loosening on John's wrist. "Don't you even  _care_  what happened?"

_Oh._

John took in a deep breath, letting it out again in a sigh.

"Budge up," he said. Sherlock just looked at him dumbly, until John gave him a gentle shove on the shoulder. "I said budge  _up_ , Sherlock." Sherlock finally moved over, eyeing John suspiciously.

John lay down beside him in the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling. He felt somehow that this might go better if he didn't have to look at Sherlock.

"Of course I care," he said to the cracked ceiling. "Christ, Sherlock, I threw up and then almost strangled you to death." He huffed a bitter laugh. "If that doesn't show I care then I don't know what would."

He could feel Sherlock shifting restlessly next to him. "Then why won't you let me explain..."

"I will. You can tell me anything you want, Sherlock, but I'm not as dumb as you think." He carried on past Sherlock's token protest. "Give me some credit at least, for knowing that this wasn't about me. That you didn't do all this just to fuck with my mind. If you did it you felt you had to, and I want to know why — I  _do_  — but not as much as I want to know if you're all right."

There was only silence from the bed next to him. Even the restless shifting had stopped.

John squeezed his eyes tight, forcing words past the lump in his throat. "Are you all right, Sherlock? Because you don't — you don't seem all right."

He waited for endless minutes before Sherlock finally answered, his voice slow and halting, so different from his usual confident tones. "I don't know, John. I think — I think that perhaps I haven't been." John could hear just how much it cost Sherlock to admit that.

He turned toward him just as one shaking, nicotine-stained hand crept over the bedclothes, insinuating itself into John's grasp. Sherlock stared at the ceiling, while John stared down at their clasped hands. "But I think it's better now."


	7. The Visitor

John clasped Sherlock's hand in his, both of them staring back up at the ceiling now.

"Is it done, then?" John finally asked. "Are you staying?"

Sherlock's hand twitched in his, and John knew his answer long before he replied. "No," he said. "It's still not safe."

John shut his eyes tight, feeling Sherlock's answer like a punch to the gut as much as he thought he was prepared for it. He realized he was squeezing Sherlock's cold fingers, as if to keep him there, and forced himself to loosen his grip.

"I'll go with you," he said. "I would have — even back then, I would have gone with you. You had only to ask. I could have helped." He cringed at the pleading note he heard in his own voice.

"I know you would have," Sherlock said softly. "But it wasn't possible. It was too dangerous."

"Too  _dangerous_?" John was getting angry again. "Since when have I cared about that?"

_["And I said 'dangerous' and here you are," Sherlock drawled.]_

"You were only partly right," Sherlock said abruptly.

"About what?"

"You said it wasn't about you. You were only partly right." Sherlock's voice was shaking with anger now as well. "It  _was_  about you, but not only you. Moriarty liked snipers, John, you already knew that. There were three. One for you. One for Mrs. Hudson. One for Lestrade."

It took a moment for John to figure out Sherlock's meaning, his mind still stuck on _Moriarty liked snipers, John, you knew that_.

_["You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson," Moriarty crowed as a red dot appeared on Sherlock's forehead.]_

"Three snipers," he repeated dumbly.

"Just so." Sherlock's voice was bitter now. "As Moriarty said, he owed me a fall, and he was determined to see that I got it. Even if I could have stopped three triggers in any other way — an impossibility, I assure you — that still wouldn't have been the end of it."

The words came tumbling out as if Sherlock had thought them a million times, his voice stark with the despair of the impossible decision. "Even if I had managed to take you with me, protect the others, they would have  _known_. Do you think they would have just given up? No, there's always Harry. Mrs. Hudson's sister. Lestrade's  _children_."

The shock of it sent a shudder through John's body.

_["Alone is what I have. Alone protects me," Sherlock had said in the lab at St. Bart's, the last time John saw him before the fall. "No. Friends protect people," John had spat back at him angrily.]_

Sherlock took a deep breath, and when he spoke again his voice was calm, distant. "Once Moriarty knew I was...compromised, there was no end to it. A never-ending web of entanglements — of potential victims for Moriarty to use as leverage."

John took a deep inhale, letting it out slowly through his nose, trying to calm himself as well even as guilt turned his stomach. "Christ, I've been a self-involved bastard. I never thought — I just never would have imagined..."

His words trailed off as the imagined horrors played in his head. Sherlock, helpless, his brilliant mind impotent against brute force as everyone he cared about was felled by a sniper's bullet. No warning, no way to fight back. Just dead. John had seen it himself in Afghanistan — a soldier there one minute and gone the next, and nothing but the delayed crack of a gunshot to indicate what had happened.

"We can't all have the imagination of a psychopathic criminal mastermind, John," Sherlock said drily.

That surprised a bark of laughter out of John, despite himself. "Too right," he said, his mind still reeling.

"In any case, I knew if I survived the fall I would have to do the rest alone. You understand now, don't you John?"

John felt something turn over in his stomach as he pushed himself up to sitting, his eyes searching Sherlock's face in disbelief. "What do you mean,  _if you survived the fall?_ Do you mean you actually — fell?"

Sherlock pushed himself upright as well, wincing a bit. "Well, of course I fell, John," he said impatiently, as if it were tedious to point out the obvious. "Or jumped, rather. You were there."

If John weren't so gobsmacked, he would have been smiling to hear Sherlock sound so like his old self. "Yeah, I saw you jump. I also saw you  _die_ , Sherlock. But here you are, so I figured it had to be...some kind of trick."

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. "Well, I expect it was at that. But it had to be convincing enough to the sniper who was watching. I chose the location, of course, and took what precautions I could manage at such short notice. A back brace and padding, an awning at ground level to slow my velocity, that sort of thing. Nothing that would seem out of place to observers. You would have been the hardest to fool."

_["No, stay exactly where you are," Sherlock had said. "Don't move."]_

"Sherlock, you..." John's hand was reaching out, toward Sherlock's skull, his mind reeling with the memory of it cracked on the pavement. He pulled it back, closing it into a fist in his lap.

"We have to stop talking about this," he finally said, staring down at his white knuckles, his voice choked and uneven. "My heart can't take it."

He felt Sherlock shifting uneasily beside him. "John," he finally said. "I am...touched by your concern. But it is entirely irrational. You can see for yourself that I am right here, perfectly fine."

" _Touched by my concern?"_ John repeated disbelievingly. "Yeah, well, kindest regards to you too, mate," he said, running a hand over his face. He looked up to find Sherlock looking at him with complete confusion on his face. "Jesus, Sherlock, do you have any idea...?"

A sudden knock had John leaping to his feet, the gun already in his hand, putting his body between Sherlock and the door.

"Get in the bathroom," he barked.

When he flicked a look backwards Sherlock was rising unhurriedly, shrugging into his shirt.

"There's no need, it's only Mycroft," he said, his voice pinched with annoyance. "And he's got a new umbrella," he added, his eyes growing distant for a moment. "Mahogany."

John felt for a moment that he had to still be dreaming, it was so surreal.

"Of course it is," he said. "Bloody Mycroft and his  _bloody_  brolly." Still, he kept his gun in his hand as he went to open the door.

"Good afternoon, John," Mycroft intoned, placid as ever, managing to slither like an eel through the small space John had opened. He carefully placed a satchel on the bed by Sherlock before making himself at home in the desk chair, umbrella clasped primly under his folded hands. "Brother dear. So pleased to see you amongst the living."

John leaned against the wall, watching them. At Mycroft's entrance Sherlock had pulled on his old persona like a shroud, somehow suppressing his twitchy, haunted mannerisms and adopting instead an arrogant scowl.

"The same to you, Mycroft. I would have thought that you might have succumbed to gout by now."

"Death has not improved your manners, I see."

John's gaze, which had been bouncing between the two brothers as if he were watching a tennis match, settled on Sherlock again. "Even Mycroft didn't know you were alive?" He didn't know whether to feel comforted or terrified by that — knowing that when Sherlock had said alone, he had meant  _alone_.

A genteel snort from Mycroft answered that. Sherlock glowered further. "He knew — or at least he knew for certain, once I started delivering Moriarty's network to him piece by piece. I just wouldn't let him get his grasping hands on me."

Mycroft harrumphed at that. "Come now, Sherlock. You know I could have had you taken in at Lau Pa Sat had I wished."

Sherlock sneered. "I spotted your agent within twelve seconds of setting foot in the market."

"That was the one I intended you to spot. It was the other three who would have had you, should I have given the order."

Sherlock's sneer faltered at that.

"You were growing careless, brother." Mycroft's placid manner seemed to slip, a trace of emotion coloring his soft words. "It is high time you came in from the cold."

Sherlock seemed to sense Mycroft's sincerity. His arrogant mien stuttered for just a moment, and he responded by immediately busying himself in the satchel, casting aside a change of clothing impatiently to pull out a sleek laptop and external hard drive. He settled on the bed cross-legged, firing it up, his fingers drumming impatiently on the keyboard as if the mere seconds of start-up time were an intolerable delay.

"So all this time — you were tracking Moriarty?" John asked.

"Moriarty?" Sherlock responded absently, the computer up and running now and his fingers flying over the keyboard. "No, of course not — he's been dead for ages."

"What?!" John pushed himself away from the wall, searching Sherlock's face for clues. "Did you kill him?"

"No, more's the pity. He killed himself. Shot himself on the roof of St. Bart's. Knew I'd manage to get him to call off the snipers, otherwise."

"Jesus." John found his knees weak again, his weight sagging against the wall. Almost a year he had spent, with the spectre of Moriarty in his nightmares — imagining that reptilian smile gloating over Sherlock's death. John had even had ludicrous daydreams of tracking Moriarty down himself, exacting revenge in Sherlock's stead. And all this time, the man himself had been dead, by his own hand.

Sherlock's gaze flicked over John and then back to the computer. And then back to John, as if drawn irresistibly. His mouth twisted. "Oh, do sit down, John. I did tell you, after all, that Moriarty was determined to see me fall. His own death was logical, just another cog in the wheel."

 _Logical_. John numbly walked over to the bed and sat down on the foot of it, midway more or less between Sherlock and Mycroft.

"Tea?" he finally asked, for lack of anything better to do.

And Christ, the Holmes brothers smirking in synchrony was about all he could stand. He took the few steps into the kitchen and started the kettle.

Sherlock made a noise of satisfaction, obviously having uncovered some of the information he was seeking. He paused for a moment, looking up at Mycroft.

"What time?" he asked.

"Ah," Mycroft replied cryptically.

John felt tension suddenly crackling between the two brothers.

"No," Sherlock snapped definitively, his whole body suddenly full of whipcord tension, a scowl across his brow.

Mycroft simply gazed at him calmly.

John rubbed a weary hand across his forehead. "Oh, for God's sake, would one of you just say it out loud, for the dimwit over here who is not blessed with Holmesian telepathy?"

Both men looked startled at being interrupted, and then Sherlock looked sulkily back at the computer, tapping away again.

Mycroft shifted his gaze consideringly to John.

"Given the degree of surveillance on you, Doctor, Sherlock's plan to move himself to a secure location tonight is now untenable. It is suspicious enough that I was seen coming here. For him to try to spirit himself away at this juncture would be  _highly_  inadvisable."

"No one  _asked_  you to come," Sherlock grumbled, ignored by both men.

"Do you mean..." John's words died in his throat as he looked carefully at Mycroft. If it had been anyone —  _anyone_  — else, he would have said there was a glint of mischief in those eyes.

"I am afraid, Doctor, that Sherlock has no choice but to stay here for the moment," Mycroft said placidly.

John's gaze shifted to Sherlock. He was clicking away at the keyboard, apparently absorbed in his task, but two spots of pink had appeared over those ridiculous cheekbones.

An odd mixture of emotions washed over John. He thought it was about half _thank Christ, he's staying_  and half  _the two of us in this tiny flat — bloody hell, he'll kill us both_.

He voiced only one thought, however. "Mycroft," he said mildly. "D'you take sugar?"


	8. The Colonel

"Mycroft," John said mildly. "D'you take sugar?"

"Just milk," Mycroft answered, self-consciously smoothing his waistcoat.

John handed Mycroft's cup to him. Sherlock tried to wave John away but John adeptly plucked the waving hand out of the air and wrapped it around the handle of the cup. Sherlock scowled but took an absent-minded sip, continuing to tap away at the keyboard one-handed.

John settled back on the end of the bed, sipping his own tea.

"So if this isn't about Moriarty, who exactly has me under surveillance?" He addressed his question to Mycroft, knowing better than to expect further explanations from Sherlock now that he was engrossed in his task.

Mycroft nodded toward the satchel, and John pulled it over to him by the strap, retrieving from its depths a dossier.

Sherlock flicked a quick glance at it. " _Paper_ ," he sniffed disparagingly.

"And fortunate for us that it was," Mycroft countered calmly.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran," John read aloud.

"'The Man Without a Face,' he has been called," Mycroft said, and John just barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Mycroft did always have a flair for the dramatic.

John scanned the dossier quickly. Former Colonel in the South African Army, although his talents were recognized early on as being more suited to assassination than to field command. Seemed like the man was something of a prodigy with a sniper rifle, distinguishing himself in the war in Sierra Leone in some very unofficial capacities, before being dishonorably discharged in 2004.

John raised his eyebrows. "Exactly what does an assassin do to earn himself a dishonorable discharge?"

Mycroft's mouth formed a moue of distaste. "He does not confine his activities to the killing field. Colonel Moran has a penchant for sadism, bordering on the murderous. Atrocities of war can obscure a string of young female corpses for only so long. Even in West Africa, tolerance for that sort of thing has its limits."

"Charming." John returned to reading. Mercenary since his discharge, tied to a string of assassinations internationally, and then...

John flipped the last page over, just to make sure, but there were no more pages. "It ends in 2008."

Mycroft nodded. "In 2008, we believe, Moran met James Moriarty."

John's eyebrows raised again. "A merc like this with a single employer for years? That's about as rare as a merc living past 40."

"Moran seems exceptional in several aspects," Mycroft sniffed. "Most notably, the complete paucity of information regarding his appearance. The South African National Defence Force, recognizing his way with a long-range rifle early on, saw fit to obscure his identity as much as possible. Records from his enlistment, even his school records, were scrubbed clean. He was equally scrupulous about leaving no traces throughout his freelance mercenary career. And apparently when he met Moriarty, his talent for anonymity only heightened. Electronic records simply vanished."

"The Man Without a Face," John repeated, much less amused by the dramatic title now. "How about his...victims?"

"Those who survived are in no condition to be making statements, unfortunately."

John felt a shiver creep down his spine.

"If Moriarty was his employer, though, and he's been dead for almost a year, why is Moran still a threat? Why have me under surveillance at all?"

Mycroft nodded approvingly, looking like a teacher whose exceptionally dull student had finally hit upon the right question. "The lack of information has been an obstacle, but it is clear that Moriarty and Moran were more than employer and employee. At the very least, Moran was Moriarty's second-in-command and most trusted associate. At the most...well, the depth of Moran's devotion to Moriarty suggests that they might have been...involved in some way."

John felt his eyebrows hit his hairline again. "But I thought...the girls..."

Sherlock spoke for the first time since their conversation had begun. "Come now, John, surely your understanding of sexual preferences is not so black and white?" His pale eyes seemed to look right through John, and John resisted the urge to shift uneasily under that penetrating gaze.

Sherlock looked back at the laptop, to John's relief. "Moriarty was an expert at being all things to all people," he added. "Whatever he did to keep Moran at his side — whether it was dominating Moran himself, or simply being a gleeful accessory to his ongoing sadism — it would have bound Moran to him like a dog on a leash." The grey eyes flitted back up to look at John. "And a vicious dog who loses his owner only becomes  _more_  dangerous."

John nodded his acknowledgement. "So this is the man we're after," he said to Mycroft.

"No, John. This is the man who is after  _you_. Or will be, if he can be sure that Sherlock has returned. Moran escaped several times as we closed in on other parts of Moriarty's web. He knows now that someone is taking it apart, and he likely suspects that individual is Sherlock or myself. Only he and at the most one or two of his associates are left. He is watching you, hoping that Sherlock will return." Mycroft's gaze was calm and impassive as he added, "Most likely so that he can torture and kill you while Sherlock watches."

"Jesus, Mycroft! Break it to me gently, why don't you?"

"I want to be certain that you — that  _both_  of you — understand the seriousness of the situation," Mycroft stated ponderously, shooting a pointed glance at Sherlock. "The only reason you are still alive, John, is because Moran is using you as bait. If you have any change in your routine, if he gets any indication that Sherlock is alive, let alone in this very flat, he will kill you both. Slowly."

"I get it, Mycroft." John drained the last of his tea, slamming the cup down with frustration. "I understand my role in all this. I stroll along, back and forth to the surgery like nothing's changed, hoping to draw this bastard out. And if we identify him, we — what? Hand him over to you?"

Sherlock looked up from his computer again, the screen casting an eerie light on his pale face. "He looked at you through a rifle scope, John," he said, his voice arctically chilly. "If he's _lucky_ , we will hand him over to Mycroft."

John looked back at Mycroft, expecting protestations. Instead all he saw was the barest twitch of a smile.

* * *

John showed Mycroft out the door, closing and locking it and then resting his back against it. Christ, it was only late afternoon and he felt exhausted.

Sherlock was still engrossed in the computer, but he seemed to have shed the facade of indifference he had put on for Mycroft. His face was more mobile somehow, and he had let his spine slump a little. As John watched Sherlock resettled the computer in his lap, a twinge of pain passing over his face.

John fetched a glass of water and two paracetamol. "Here," he said, thrusting them unceremoniously at Sherlock, who swallowed them without even taking his eyes from the screen.

John watched the nicotine-stained fingers fly across the keyboard. "I'll get you some nicotine patches from the surgery tomorrow. I have the day shift."

"Fine," Sherlock said, tapping away at the keyboard. As John continued to stand there, he finally looked up, his face petulant. "For God's sake, John, stop  _hovering_. Whatever you normally do on a Saturday — go do that." He waved a hand dismissively at John.

Right. No problem. John usually spent Saturdays moping around the flat, unable to pull himself from his bed, castigating himself for having romantic lucid dreams about his deceased flatmate. He would just carry on with that, then, yeah? Never mind that said resurrected flatmate was currently hogging the bed with his gangly legs crossed, tapping away on his computer inches away.

Sherlock's eyes were on him again, and — oh, bloody hell, he was  _deducing_.

"You were hopelessly drunk last night, which means that you would spend today hungover. Maybe you would stir yourself for a trip to Tesco's, but — no, the milk in the refrigerator has an expiration date of a Sunday and you always take the freshest one from the back, so you grocery shop on Sundays. On your way home from your afternoon shift at the surgery then. Saturdays you stay in, and nurse your hangover. So..."

Sherlock looked a little disconcerted. "Oh. Here." He shifted over a bare micrometer. "Take a nap, John."

John snorted. " _You_  telling  _me_  to get some sleep for a change. That's rich." The bed did look inviting, though, and God knows he was exhausted. He sat down gingerly on the edge. Sherlock was engrossed in the computer again, and...

"Is that...?" John leaned in closer. "Is that...video footage of  _me_?" As Sherlock opened and closed windows on the left side of the screen, three separate video feeds were running along the right-hand side of the screen, each with different time and date stamps.

"Of course," Sherlock said absently. "Moran has had you under surveillance this whole time, but he was there personally on the day...the day that Moriarty died, and he will be here personally now. We can only hope that he slipped up somehow, that he was caught in CCTV footage. Something that would set him apart from the hundreds of people you pass every day..."

Sherlock's words trailed off into an absent-minded hum, as he clicked on one of the video feeds, enlarging it for a moment and then pausing it. John saw himself, walking to the surgery no doubt. He looked small and sad, his shoulders slumped and head ducked as if against a hard rain, even though the sky was clear. Sherlock zoomed in on a figure walking by John for a moment. He apparently dismissed the bystander as a suspect, minimizing the window and resuming the footage.

John blew out a disbelieving breath. "So, I'm just going to lie next to you and take a nap while you watch videos of me on your computer. That's not weird at  _all_ ," he mumbled grumpily.

"Normal is boring," Sherlock said carelessly, and John couldn't help it. It was just so... _Sherlock_...and he was suddenly giggling helplessly, tears in his eyes, half laughing and if he would admit it to himself half crying.

He finally flopped back on the bed, closing his eyes, still giggling from time to time.

He let his hand drift outwards from his body until it made the barest contact with Sherlock, his knuckles grazing the material of the trousers at Sherlock's bony knee, feeling just a trace of Sherlock's body heat. Sherlock, warm and alive, and  _here_.

"I did miss you," John murmured, feeling half-asleep already, exhausted by the emotional morning and strangely lulled by the steady clicking of Sherlock's fingers on the keyboard.

He lay there, lingering on the edge of sleep, so close that the feel of Sherlock's fingers brushing gently over his hair may have been a dream.

"Sleep, John," that deep baritone voice said, and John slept.

* * *

 


	9. The Nightmare

_Sherlock was falling. In slow motion he tipped and then fell, his arms spread, his coat flapping around him, down, and down, and down. And in slow motion John ran, his feet sinking into the ground as if it were wet sand, blood roaring in his ears. He ran toward Sherlock, as he always did — but this time he caught him._

_He felt the solid weight of him land heavy in his arms, and he cradled Sherlock to his chest. "I did it!" His voice rang with exultation. "I caught you, Sherlock! You didn't..."_

_His words stopped up in his throat, the jubilant smile melting from his face as he looked down at the man in his arms. Sherlock's head lolled back over John's arm, the pale grey eyes vacant and staring, with a third eye — the neat red-black hole of a sniper's bullet — centered above them._

* * *

 John jerked awake, the strangled roar of grief and anger trapped in his throat. He felt his pulse racing, his chest so tight he felt as if he would never draw a full breath again.

"John?" He caught a glimpse of Sherlock's face, pale and concerned in the glow of the laptop screen.

His body moved without his permission _—_ a sudden lunge and the next thing he knew he was pressed up against Sherlock's back, his cheek awkwardly mashed between two sharp shoulder blades.

"John?" He could hear the concern in Sherlock's voice, could feel him trying to turn around, and John just grasped him tighter. He felt weak and panicky and he couldn't let Sherlock see him right now, he couldn't let go, he just needed...he just needed this for a moment.

He pressed his forehead against Sherlock's spine and sucked in a shuddering breath through his nose. It was filled with the warm soothing scent of Sherlock _—_ the deep rich smell of the man himself that had always lingered under the wool and chemicals and soap.

"Please," he ground out. "Just...let me stay like this for a minute."

He felt Sherlock's body go still and quiet. "Yes. All right," he said, the befuddlement clear in his voice.

They sat like that for endless minutes, John trying to slow his racing heart, his face pressed tight to Sherlock's silk shirt, feeling the soft fabric billow in and out with every one of his uneven breaths. He felt ridiculous and weak, clinging to Sherlock like this, knowing the shirt over Sherlock's spine was growing damp with his suppressed tears, but he couldn't let go. It helped, to feel Sherlock solid in his arms, to hear his heartbeat and breathing through the warm skin of his back.

"Sorry," he found himself mumbling in embarrassment into the damp shirt. "Sorry."

Sherlock had limited range of motion given how John had his arms pinned to his sides, but he managed to snake one hand up, patting awkwardly at the random part of John's arm that he could reach. "It's all right, John," he said solemnly. "If this helps you, then...I am amenable."

Despite everything, John found himself huffing with laughter against Sherlock's back. The mad bugger, of course he wouldn't care how strange it was that his former flatmate was clinging to him like a terrified child with a teddy bear. Every once in awhile there was something to be said for a total obliviousness to social mores.

It was that thought which finally allowed him to release Sherlock, his stiff arms sliding awkwardly free. Maybe Sherlock would dismiss this as yet another inexplicable display of sentiment, not inconsistent with their friendship. All the same, he kept his face averted as he stood up, sure that his feelings for Sherlock must have been writ large across his expression.

"I'm going to take a shower," he mumbled, rummaging through his wardrobe to gather up a change of clothes. "And then I'll order us some takeaway for dinner."

"Fine." Sherlock was already tapping at the keyboard again, but when John sneaked a quick glance the cool grey eyes were fixed on him, a thoughtful furrow wrinkling the pale brow.

John took an extraordinarily long shower, trying to regain his composure. Every sensible bone in his body was telling him that he had to hide his feelings from Sherlock for as long as possible. This was no time to throw the emotional equivalent of a hand grenade into their relationship. Sherlock seemed exceptionally fragile right now. Their lives were at risk. And, above all, they were trapped in this tiny flat together for the foreseeable future.

God, he could only imagine the awkwardness if Sherlock discovered his feelings, and had to rebuff him while they spent the next few weeks in each others' pockets. Or worse, if Sherlock became uncomfortable _—_ maybe even got frightened away, driven to do something impulsive like leave the flat...

No, he had to get a hold of himself. He had already revealed way too much. He wouldn't hide his feelings forever, he knew better than to think that was a possibility. Even Sherlock's blind spot for sentiment wouldn't miss something like this indefinitely, and John himself could not continue to lie to them both now that he had realized the truth. When this was over, when Moran was dealt with, he would tell Sherlock about his inconvenient feelings. And if, as was likely, Sherlock was disinterested, he would assure him that nothing would change between them. He could manage this _—_ he could, as long as Sherlock stayed in his life.

Feeling somewhat grounded by that decision, he dressed and emerged. Sherlock was still cross-legged on the bed, but John realized now that he must have showered and changed while John was napping. He was wearing the clothes Mycroft had brought, and with residual dampness forcing his shorn locks to curl slightly he looked so much like his old self that it made John dizzy for a moment.

He picked up his phone to order the takeaway.

"Exactly what you usually order, John. There must be no deviation from your routine," Sherlock instructed imperiously from his perch.

John considered. Usually he ordered enough to have leftovers anyway. "You're eating," he stated firmly to Sherlock, and then placed his typical order.

He sat down on the bed to pull on his shoes. How was this going to work? Granted Sherlock seemed able to subsist on air and tea, but eventually he would need supplies. More clothes, extra food, and the like. When he asked, Sherlock simply shrugged aside the question impatiently. "Mycroft will get it sorted," he said, returning to his relentless tapping.

After returning with the takeaway, John forced Sherlock to eat by the simple expedient of confiscating the computer until he did. Sherlock's petulance diminished after the first few bites, John watching in amazement as he started to practically shovel the pad thai in. He had eaten a little breakfast when John had forced it on him, but not like this. Hopefully that meant he was feeling better.

John relinquished the computer, and they sat in relatively companionable silence for awhile, John catching up on a few medical journals while Sherlock watched endless amounts of footage.

Finally, as the clock crept closer to midnight, John put his journal down with a sigh.

"You're going to sleep," he said, his voice brooking no argument.

"What? Of course not." Sherlock didn't even move his eyes from the screen.

"Sherlock." John sat next to him on the bed, considering his approach. He wouldn't put money on being able to snatch the computer away again. "First of all, you need sleep. You're still recovering from injuries. Second of all, you've been at this all day. You'll get sloppy and miss something."

Sherlock's jaw clenched. "I don't get  _sloppy_ ," he said, making the last word sound like the vilest of curses.

John could feel his temper rising. Did the man not have the slightest care for his own well-being? "That's not what Mycroft said."

"Mycroft is an arse. He knows that's not why..." Sherlock suddenly cut his words off, his eyes darting to John's before he immediately began feigning a frankly unbelievable degree of fascination with the computer screen.

"What?" John was missing something, he could feel it. What had Mycroft said exactly?

_["You were growing careless, brother. It is high time you came in from the cold."]_

John felt a strange tingling in his fingers. He had felt it before, every now and again, especially in Afghanistan. It was his body's way of telling him that something was not quite right, before his brain had figured it out.

"Why  _did_  you come back?" he found himself asking. "I mean, why now?" He found his words gaining confidence, the more he thought it through. "You said yourself that it wasn't safe. You certainly weren't planning on staying here, you were furious when Mycroft told you. If you weren't getting sloppy, if you didn't need Mycroft's backup, why  _did_  you come back before it was done?"

To John's startlement, Sherlock slammed the computer shut. He dropped it carelessly to the floor.

"You want me to sleep, John? Fine."

He heaved himself over on his side, curling up like a shrimp, and closed his eyes.

John was torn between exasperation, confusion, and overwhelming, ridiculous affection.

"Oh no, you magnificent prat, don't think you can avoid me like that."

He turned off the light anyway, the room lit now only by the face of his clock and the dim reflection of streetlights sneaking in round the edges of his curtains.

He pulled off his shoes and socks, and then shed his belt and his jumper before lying down beside Sherlock in his trousers and t-shirt.

They lay there in silence for a few minutes, John listening to Sherlock feign deep, even breathing. If John wasn't mistaken, Sherlock even threw in an artistic little snuffling snore. He didn't actually think this would work, did he?

"So, you're not going to tell me then?"

He felt Sherlock heave himself onto his back, practically radiating petulance. "Why were you drinking?" he asked sharply.

"What?" The counterattack was so abrupt it took a moment for the question to sink in, John's heart racing with belated reaction. By then Sherlock was off and running, the stream of deductions so rapid John could barely follow his words.

"You have the same routine, every Friday, but only on Friday. Beer and whiskey. Why both? You never have company, no one for whom you would be buying one or the other. And if the object were to get drunk, you would simply start with the whiskey and continue accordingly. You are an experienced drinker, although scrupulous about over-imbibing given your family's predilection towards alcoholism, and you have always previously limited your alcohol consumption to social contexts. You would know that a carbonated alcoholic beverage followed by hard liquor is a recipe for hangover, and yet you continue with both. Despite the appearance of this flat you have no need to economize with cheaper alcohol, if you did you would purchase the beer in larger amounts, by the case, or a cheaper brand of whiskey than the one you consume, which appears to be a brand favored by you largely because you sentimentally associate it with a male family member  _—_  not your father, who was a gin drunk; a more moderate drinker, likely an uncle or  _—_  no, grandfather. On your mother's side, Scottish of course, the Hamish for whom you have been saddled with your middle name. In any event, you purchase them on a rotating schedule; a six-pack of beer every third week and a 750 milliliter bottle of whiskey approximately every ten weeks, indicating that you consume approximately two bottles of beer and 75 milliliters of whiskey per week, or three shots of whiskey, assuming a standard 25 milliliter shot. Except for the week you apparently tried to quit and rid yourself of your supply, but then returned to consumption very late that evening, repurchasing both. You are not alcohol-dependent, at least not yet. You show no signs of drinking or hangover during the week. You appear to consume the full amount only on Friday evenings, as evidenced by the empty bottles in your recycling bin and the contents of your stomach when you vomited this morning. Why?"

John lay in silence, no doubt gaping.  _That's amazing_ , his mind said. And then it said,  _Oh, fuck_.

Sherlock was looking at him now. John couldn't see him in the dim light, hadn't heard him turn his head, but he could _feel_  that unearthly gaze on him, stripping away his secrets, laying him bare.

Feeling like a coward, he turned his back on Sherlock.

"Good night, Sherlock," he said.

"You're not going to tell me, then?" It should have been mocking, his own words from a few minutes ago spoken back to him, but it wasn't. Sherlock's voice sounded genuinely confused and...hurt.

John gritted his teeth, wishing he had a better answer.

"I  _—_  no. I'm not."

He waited, sweating in silence, to see if Sherlock would push the issue. Instead he heard quiet rustling, as Sherlock seemed to turn his back as well.

"Good night, John."

* * *


	10. The Flat

John made his way down the dairy aisle at Tesco's, Sherlock's voice ringing in his ears from the litany of instructions he had imparted this morning.

_["Behave exactly as you would on any other Sunday, John. Do not adjust your routine in any way. Except for the nicotine patches, don't forget the nicotine patches. But don't get caught nicking them. You look guilty already — don't look guilty. And remember to slump. Look sad. Stop at Tesco's on your way back as usual, but only get what you typically buy. A little more hunched — there it is. And for God's sake, try not to look like you're being watched!"]_

The day had been agony, patient after patient at the surgery with the typical mind-numbingly minor complaints, and then this pointless trip to Tesco's, trying the whole time to seem like his usual, grieving self. Trying not to rush back to his flat to see Sherlock again. And above all else, trying hard as hell not to think about this morning. Because as chilly as their goodnights had been he had somehow, inexplicably, woken up this morning with an armful of consulting detective.

More than an armful, in fact. The two of them had been twined together like  _—_  well, an appropriate simile was escaping his scattered mind at the moment, but picture something exceptionally...twiney. His face had been nestled into Sherlock's neck, his arms around Sherlock's waist, while Sherlock had one remarkably weighty arm across John's shoulders. And their legs  _—_  John's own shorter legs had been all mixed in with Sherlock's endless, trousered limbs, bare foot to trousered calf, one of John's knees pinned securely between Sherlock's long thighs...

John realized that he had absent-mindedly picked up a packet of the chocolate biscuits Sherlock liked, and hurriedly put it back on the shelf, exchanging it for the gingersnap biscuits he preferred. Damn it all. He would not put himself and Sherlock in the way of a sniper's bullet, just because he was distracted by memories of Sherlock — no matter how enticing those dark curls had seemed against the snow-white pillow as John had surreptitiously extricated himself. He had watched Sherlock's face carefully to be certain he showed no signs of waking, but it had remained slack and gentled somehow with sleep, his lashes dark against creamy skin, that impossible pink mouth just slightly open...

 _Bloody hell._ Even a row with the Chip and PIN machine would be a welcome distraction right now.

Fortunately, as John found out approximately twenty minutes later, there is no greater cure for lust than the object of said lust being an absolute, unbelievable,  _twat_.

"For Christ's sake, John, did you return from the surgery via  _Sussex_? I would have thought that even  _you_  could manage to go seven streets without getting lost. Did you not realize that I've been trapped in this nightmare of a flat for an  _eternity_?"

 _Welcome home_ , John said to himself. He ignored the tall man whizzing maniacally around the tiny flat like some sort of deranged fruit-bat and started putting the groceries away.

"It's been  _one day_ , Sherlock," he said quellingly.

"One day of absolute, execrable, mind-numbing boredom, John. Eight hours and thirty-seven minutes of relentless, detestable tedium. Thirty-one thousand and twenty seconds of unbearable, soul-crushing dullness."

"How fortunate that you survived," John murmured.

"I mean really, John, what are you trying to accomplish with this dreadful flat? There's not even a telly, and I know how you absolutely rely upon your horrible telly. Is this monastic disavowal of all worldly possessions supposed to indicate some measure of your grief, the real estate equivalent of a hair shirt, or  _—_  "

"Stop." John hardly recognized his own voice. It cracked loudly through the air, echoing in the suddenly silent flat. His hand had clenched so tightly around the gingersnap biscuits that he could feel they were in crumbles.

He put the biscuits down carefully, gently, only distantly aware that his whole body was shaking with rage.

"Don't you  _dare_ ," he said, voice tight with suppressed fury, staring down at the crumpled packet of biscuits because he didn't know what he'd do if he looked at Sherlock right now. "Don't you  _dare_  make light of how I grieved for you. Don't you even  _begin_  to think that you can judge what I did, what I had to do, just to keep going after you left me."

"You're still angry about that." Christ, Sherlock didn't even have the decency to make it a question, just a realization.

"Of  _course_  I'm still angry about that."

"But I explained..."

"You explained why you thought you had to do it. And I understood, because I know you, Sherlock, I know how you think. You thought that if you told me, I would go skipping around town, singing tra-la-la, and all and sundry would know that you were alive, yeah? You didn't trust my acting skills, you thought I had to look the part of bereaved John Watson, to lull all the bad guys into complacency. What you didn't even think about, you  _utter_   _wanker_ , what you didn't even  _consider_..."

And god, on some level he knew he wasn't considering either, or these words wouldn't be coming out of his mouth, but he was just too angry to care...

"...is that you could have told me at any time. Even if I had known that you were alive, don't you think it would have been  _enough_  to know that you were out there, somewhere, chasing the most dangerous of criminals, without me at your back? Don't you think that the grief of parting from you, never knowing if you would return, never knowing  _if you were even dead or alive_ , would have shown on my face every minute of every day? Don't you think that would have been enough to fool anyone into thinking I was a man mourning the loss of his  _flatmate?_ " He spat the last word as if it were a curse.

"...But no, you didn't think of any of that, did you? Instead you left me, Sherlock, you  _left me in_   _utter anguish_ , for almost a year. So yeah, if you sense  _a slight hint of anger_  from time to time, that is why." He stared down at his hands. They were still shaking. "That is why," he repeated woodenly.

He felt Sherlock moving closer and shut his eyes, trying to get himself under control. If Sherlock pushed him right now, if he tried to argue him out of this _—_ tell John how damned  _illogical_  his feelings were — he might just snap.

The first light, hesitant touch of Sherlock's hand on his shoulder shocked him. He barely had time to draw in a startled breath and then Sherlock was pressing closer, nudging in somewhat awkwardly until he had his arms looped loosely around John's stiff body.

"Sherlock," John started, pulling back.

Sherlock's arms tightened around John so quickly that John was pulled off balance, landing hard up against Sherlock's chest. He huffed out an annoyed breath, bracing his hands to push Sherlock off him, and then...

"I'm sorry." Sherlock's words were so quiet he could barely make them out, but they caused John to freeze, suddenly grasping instead of pushing away the silk shirt beneath his fingers. It was only the second time he had ever heard Sherlock apologize to anyone. John could feel Sherlock's breath against the top of his head, ruffling his hair. "I'm sorry," Sherlock said again, his voice ragged.

John felt some of the sudden anger drain out of him, making him feel suddenly weightless, his head buzzing and his heart still racing with reaction. He took a deep breath and then allowed himself to lean into Sherlock's warmth. Sherlock's heartbeat thumped beneath his forehead, a little too rapid as well.

Christ, this was dangerous, but he couldn't help it, couldn't stop his hands from moving down until his arms were around Sherlock as well, returning his embrace. He took another deep breath, letting it out slowly against the soft warm skin at the lee of Sherlock's neck and shoulder.

"It had to be temporary," he finally mumbled into Sherlock's collar.

"Hmmm?" Sherlock sounded a little distracted.

"The flat." John kept his head down, unable to meet Sherlock's eyes. "When I was first invalided out of the Army, I was in a place like this, and it felt like my life was over. Like part of me had died in Afghanistan. I was suffocating, slowly. And then you came along, and..."

He shrugged, unable to explain it better. "I could breathe again. I was alive again. And I could look back at that time in the bedsit as being just...a transition." He could feel the tightening of Sherlock's arms around him as he understood, but John had to get the words out anyway. "As long as I was in a place like this, I could tell myself that it was just temporary. That something would happen to make it all better. Classic denial, I know, but..." The sound he made should have been a laugh, but came out embarrassingly close to a sob. "If I got a real flat somewhere, it would mean facing up to it. Looking towards the future, and a future without you — I couldn't face it. I'd rather stay here in limbo."

"John," Sherlock said, and if there had even been a hint of pity in his voice it would have broken John, but instead there was just...wonder.

"You were right," Sherlock finally said, and that was one more for the record books. "I didn't understand. I thought that you would be...sad. I thought that you would miss the cases, and Baker Street. But you are so unlike me, John. You have so much in your life  _—_ your work, and your friends, and your...girlfriends." His voice rasped a little on that last word, but before John could even wonder at it he was continuing. "I thought that you might miss the life we had, but you would adjust."

John took a deep breath, screwing up his courage. "It was never about the cases, or the flat, or any of that. It was always about you. Just...being with you."

He could feel Sherlock nod, the sharp chin brushing against his hair. "I...miscalculated," he said, sounding so genuinely peeved at himself that John almost laughed. "The validity of predictive data is only as good as prior historical data, and the preponderance of data I had accrued previously led me to a false assumption..." He stopped, and John felt him take in a deep, shuddering breath. "I did not believe that I could inspire those sorts of feelings in anyone," Sherlock said in a rush of breath.

John shook his head slowly, savoring these last moments against Sherlock's skin before pulling back to finally look into those pale eyes. He let himself touch, a brush of his fingers to push back the hair at Sherlock's temple, his thumb lingering on that devastating cheekbone. "You're telling the truth," John said, feeling something finally click into place. "You really didn't think that anyone would grieve for you."

Sherlock's mouth twisted, half a grimace and half a smile. "As always, John, you confounded my expectations."

_["You have always been different from the rest. Surprising. Confounding." Dream-Sherlock paused, and placed a kiss on the crown of John's head that sent pleasure rippling down his spine. "Extraordinary," dream-Sherlock breathed into his hair. "My John."]_

The sudden memory rattled John. He pulled away somewhat awkwardly, wiping his misty eyes with his hand and clearing his throat with a half-hearted laugh.

"Look at us, all emotional and carrying on. You'd think we weren't even British." John resorted to humor to try to lighten the atmosphere, but even he could tell it fell flat. Still, Sherlock merely gave him a thoughtful look.

"My mother is French," he said.

"Is she?" John was relieved to change the subject. "She wasn't at  _—_  I mean, I've never  _—_  " Christ, could he just think before he spoke for  _once_?

Sherlock seemed to be watching his babbling with wry amusement. "I think what you're trying so very hard  _not_  to say, John, is that she wasn't at my funeral." He made one of his elegant and untranslatable hand gestures, and John could see the Gallic influence now. "Despite her ancestry, emotional displays are...not really her area."

"Well." John moved into the kitchen, busying himself with the kettle. "We can't all wear our hearts on our sleeves," he found himself muttering disconsolately into the sink. Now that the rush of feeling was past, he could feel embarrassment creeping in, sending a warm flush of color up his neck. Was he ever going to be able to spend an hour in Sherlock's presence again without attacking the man in anger, crying into his shirt, or both?

He turned around to plug in the kettle and found Sherlock looming unexpectedly close, the expression in his grey eyes intense and yet unreadable. "Don't ever apologize for caring, John. It is what makes you...extraordinary."

John turned around self-consciously, busying himself with the cups and teabags, but found himself smiling.

 _Extraordinary_ , his mind found itself repeating, savoring, and then...extrapolating.  _My John._


	11. The Conversation

Sherlock was unusually quiet the rest of the evening, even eating a few bites of dinner without an argument when John put a plate next to him. John himself tried to be as unobtrusive as possible, still uncomfortable with how much he had revealed.

By midnight, John couldn't hold back the yawns anymore. It had been an exhausting day on every level. Sherlock had long ago kicked the duvet off the bed to make room for yet more papers. John picked it up, holding it awkwardly.

"You'll be okay if I take this?"

Sherlock made a vague noise of assent, not even pausing in his relentless keyboard tapping. When John started to lay the duvet down in the narrow strip of floor next to the bed, however, the tapping abruptly stopped.

"What are you doing?"

John felt the blush start to creep up his neck again. "Thought I'd kip on the floor tonight, give you some room. I don't mind." He pulled his pillow off the bed and tossed it on the floor at the head of his makeshift bedroll.

"Don't be ridiculous, John." Those intense, changeable eyes were narrowed on him, as if trying to lay his motivations bare. "You're a soldier, surely you're not shy about kipping in close proximity to another man. Besides, we've slept in this bed the last two nights."

John's mind tumbled with all the things he couldn't say.  _That was before I woke up tangled up in you. That was before I told you that losing you almost destroyed me._  It hardly mattered, Sherlock had already swept the papers onto the floor, tossing the laptop on top of them, and rounded the foot of the bed. He began to tug on the bottom of the duvet, pulling it back on the bed, and John childishly grabbed the top edge, tugging back.

"Sherlock," he snapped in irritation as Sherlock gave a sharp pull, yanking the duvet free from his grasp.

Sherlock threw the duvet on the bed and advanced on John, reaching for the pillow. John picked it up, mutinously holding it behind his back.

Sherlock stopped a step away, glaring at the pillow. John raised his chin defiantly. Something shifted in Sherlock's expression, and then suddenly...

Sherlock lunged and John braced himself, so intent on his defence of the pillow that it was several heart-stopping seconds before his mind could even process it.

Sherlock was  _kissing_  him. Clumsily, awkwardly, noses bumping and Sherlock's mouth closed and too firm, but Sherlock Holmes was definitely, positively,  _ohmybloodyLord_  kissing John Watson.

Before John could do anything, before he could even  _start_  to kiss back, Sherlock was pulling away. He took a step back, his expression carefully blank even as his eyes scanned relentlessly over John's face.

"Never mind," Sherlock said crisply. "I'll delete it. You do the same."

He reached past John, picking up the pillow that had fallen from his numb fingers, and threw it on the bed. "Good night, John."

John had a sudden image of himself, eyes wide and mouth gaping, with a giant bloody question mark floating over his head.

Because seriously,  _what_  the bloody  _fuck!?_

Sherlock lay down on the bed on his back and closed his eyes, hands folded on his chest, giving his best impression of a sepulchral statue. John finally opened his mouth to say something, to do something, because Sherlock was  _by all that was holy not pulling this bloody pretending-to-sleep bit again_...and then he looked closer.

Because for all that Sherlock was pretending to be calm, John could see the signs. His folded hands were white-knuckled with tension, his breathing quick and unsteady. The man was bloody petrified, and it made something in John shift, causing a sharp tug deep in his chest. He bit back his words, stamping down hard on the impulse to stride over there, delve his hands into that dark hair, and kiss Sherlock to within an inch of his life.

Instead he sat on the edge of the bed, taking off his socks and shoes with slow deliberation. He pulled his jumper over his head, folding it and putting it aside, and removed his belt. Then he turned off the lamp and lay down next to Sherlock, letting the darkness enfold them.

He lay quietly in the dark, listening to Sherlock breathe, feeling the heat of his body radiating across the small distance between them. For a man who looked like carved alabaster, Sherlock was remarkably warm.

When Sherlock's breath had become more slow and even, John took a deep breath of his own. "Sherlock?" he said, his voice a near-whisper.

"Yes, John?" The answer was immediate.

John hesitated, trying to keep the confusion and frustration and embarrassingly naked hope from his voice.

"I'm just an ordinary man," he said. "I can't just  _deduce_ , you need to tell me. What do you want?"

He could feel Sherlock drawing away, curling in on himself. "I think..."

John flailed his hand out suddenly, grasping Sherlock's wrist, panicked that he would leave. "I didn't ask what you  _think_ , Sherlock. I asked what you  _want_."

He could feel the pulse beneath his fingers growing rapid in Sherlock's slender wrist. He softened his voice again, moving his hand up that wrist until their fingers were interlaced. "Whatever you want, Sherlock, it's fine. Just...just tell me."

"I don't  _know_." John tried to interpret the tone of Sherlock's voice. Frustration, definitely, but was that also fear?

John squeezed Sherlock's hand, making a soothing circle on his palm with his thumb. "It's okay, Sherlock. We'll figure it out. Do you — do you want things to be as they were? When we were friends, and flatmates, but not..." John let his voice trail off, not even knowing how to finish that sentence, even if he could speak past the lump that was suddenly in his throat. He hadn't meant to push so much...

"Yes," Sherlock said, and John felt the lump in his throat growing bigger, choking him with regret.  _Christ, he had hoped, but...he could handle this. He could. Better to know._  He started to pull his hand free, and yet Sherlock's fingers tightened on his, his grip almost painful.

"And no," Sherlock added.

John barked a bitter laugh, relief and annoyance washing over him in equal measure. "Jesus  _Christ_ , Sherlock..."

"I want you to  _stay_ ," Sherlock interrupted, his voice sharp and abrupt, overly loud in the quiet room.

John froze. He finally turned, facing the dim silhouette of Sherlock on the bed. The darkness had been making the conversation easier, he thought, but suddenly he wanted desperately to see Sherlock's face.

He squeezed Sherlock's hand, letting it go, and then reached out blindly. By luck and instinct, he found Sherlock's face, letting his fingers trace lightly down his temple until he was cradling that ridiculous cheekbone. He traced his fingers back, through the short curls behind his ear. Was that a shiver he felt? He finally settled his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, the knob of the scapula sharp beneath John's palm.

"I'll stay," he whispered, his voice suddenly rough. "No matter what. You don't have to worry about that." A thought suddenly struck him, his stomach lurching at the idea. "Is this — do you feel you have to...do things, to make me stay?"

"What?" Thank Christ, Sherlock sounded completely puzzled at the idea. "No, certainly not. I wanted..." He seemed suddenly flustered. "I don't do anything I don't wish to do," he finally announced loftily.

"Good." John took a deep breath. "That's...good."

He could feel Sherlock propping his head up on one arm, could almost feel that intense grey gaze stripping him open, even in the dark. "You were worried that you were — taking advantage of me?" Sherlock deduced, the sentence hardly a question. "I'm not an innocent, John, no matter what Irene said," he scoffed.

John had no answer to that, because in some ways, Sherlock  _was_  an innocent, so obviously out of his depth when it came to intimacy. It didn't even matter if John had the words, however, because Sherlock was on a roll, his voice practically bristling with injured pride.

"Perhaps it would be easier if you would clarify  _your_  intentions, John. What exactly do  _you_  want? Fellatio? Penetrative intercourse? While we are on the subject of Irene, do you enjoy — what did Mycroft call it —  _recreational scolding_?" Sherlock's voice was sarcastic, challenging, rattling out the terms like automatic gunfire.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" John felt a flush wash over his whole body. Even though the terms were clinical, hearing them in Sherlock's rumbling coffee-rich voice brought up images that took the breath from his lungs and made his heart pound. Sherlock's beautiful mouth on John's body, Sherlock's pale chest straining upwards with pleasure as his hands were bound over his head...

"What's wrong, John? Are you  _shy_?" Sherlock mocked. "I would have thought that  _Three Continents Watson_..."

"Stop it." John's voice cracked through the room, sharp and commanding. It was his Captain Watson voice, his  _I-have-finally-had-enough-dammit-Sherlock_  voice, and he was gratified to note that Sherlock instantly fell silent.

John took a deep, steadying breath. Sherlock was trying to goad him, knowing the nickname some of his Army buddies had bestowed on him had always rankled. Sure, he had managed to pull more women on leave than any short, ordinary-looking bloke had a right to, but he wasn't some kind of —  _user_. And Sherlock was not just another pleasant diversion from deployment.

He forced himself to calm down — he would not let Sherlock derail this conversation with an argument. He cast his mind back over what Sherlock had said, taking out the vitriolic tone and looking for the kernel of truth at the heart of the sarcasm. Sherlock was intimidated by John's sexual experience. Sherlock was defensive about his own sexual experience. And Sherlock wanted to know what John expected sexually.

_Oh._

The wave of tenderness caught John by surprise. He wanted nothing more than to hold and comfort Sherlock, and so he did.

"Come here, you prat," he said, reeling Sherlock in closer. He pulled on Sherlock's stiff limbs until they were tangled comfortably together, Sherlock's head on John's shoulder, his leg pulled across John's thighs. God, the man was tall, but he managed to curl up against John's side all the same, his resistance seeming to fade as John wound a bracing arm along his back.

John closed his eyes for a moment, just breathing in the closeness, letting Sherlock settle a bit. He traced his fingers gently through Sherlock's hair, smiling as Sherlock seemed to press up into the touch like a giant gawky cat.

"I'm not talking about sex acts, Sherlock," he finally said gently. "That's not what this is about. You don't need to pick those things in advance, like it's a damned  _menu_. If you want us to be more than friends, if you want us to be — to be  _intimate_  — we can decide what we like together. It's not like I've done this with a man before. We can figure it out as we go."

John fancied he could almost hear Sherlock's mind whirring, his brilliant intellect probably reeling at the thought of making things up as they went along. He kept stroking Sherlock's hair, waiting patiently for his response.

Finally, Sherlock spoke, his body tense once again in John's arms. "I will disappoint you, John," he said, his voice carefully diffident. "I will be constantly disappointing, in every way possible."

John squeezed Sherlock closer, feeling his throat close up with emotion. "That won't happen, Sherlock. It's not — "

Something clicked into place in John's head and anger rushed through him, tensing his muscles and heating his blood. He bit out the words without forethought.  _"Who told you that?"_

He could feel Sherlock shifting, evading. "It's not..."

"Don't you dare try to tell me that it's not relevant, or some such rubbish. Somebody told you that you were disappointing, didn't they? Some — some  _ridiculous_   _wanker_  didn't understand you, didn't  _appreciate_  you, and you are letting that get in the way — get in _our_  way — "

John was practically incoherent with anger. The idea that someone had hurt Sherlock like that, had poisoned his mind, told him —  _him_ , this brilliant, amazing man — that he wasn't good enough...

He gritted his teeth, trying to get control of his temper. This wasn't about him, it was about Sherlock.

He breathed in sharply through his nose, letting it out slowly. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, Sherlock. But...we have to be able to talk about things, eventually. And whatever you are thinking...whatever you're afraid might happen..."

Sherlock was suddenly in motion, pulling away. John tamped down on the urge to grasp at him, sitting up on the edge of the bed instead, feeling Sherlock start to pace in the narrow space between the bed and the kitchen.

"It's not  _conjecture_ , John. It is  _fact_ ," he finally said, his voice as agitated as his actions. "I am obsessive, and yet easily distracted. I might spend an entire day examining your earlobes, and then will forget that you exist for the next week. I — "

He stopped pacing, the sudden stillness unsettling in the darkness of the room. When he spoke again he had that distant detached tone to his voice. "I am...hard to arouse, and am easily put off. I have been informed that when I am giving pleasure I am clinical and insincere, and when I am supposed to be pleasured in return I am instead...unresponsive. It made Seb quite — irate."

_Seb_. For better or worse, John's mind latched on that piece of information, and couldn't let go.

"Seb?" he gritted out through clenched teeth. "Sebastian  _Wilkes_? From the bank? That — that unbelievable  _twat_?"

_["We hated him," Wilkes had confided to John so casually, sitting behind his big glass desk, speaking about Sherlock as if he weren't sitting right there. "You'd come down to breakfast in the Formal Hall and this freak would know who you'd been shagging the previous night."]_

John could almost hear Sherlock's shrug. "We did not end on...good terms."

"Why on earth would you take his case then, Sherlock? Why help out that wanker..." He swallowed suddenly, his chest tight. "Oh. You weren't helping him out, were you? You were helping me out." He shook his head, his anger now turned inwards. "Because I said I needed money."

Sherlock was silent, and then a moment later John felt the edge of the bed dipping under his weight. Sherlock's hand brushed John's leg, and then settled tentatively on his knee.

"Not only that," Sherlock said. "I think I also wanted to show him...that I had found someone who could tolerate me."

_["This is my friend, John Watson," Sherlock had said. "Friend?" Wilkes repeated skeptically. "Colleague," John had corrected.]_

Shame roiled in John's belly. "I should have seen it. And I — fuck it all — I  _corrected_  you when you called me your friend. Sherlock, you know why I did that, right? It wasn't because I didn't consider you my friend. It's just...I was unemployed, and broke, and useless, and his office was so swank, and it sounded more official to call myself your colleague, and..." He took a deep breath. "Christ, I'm babbling. It doesn't matter why I said that, I was an arse. And Seb — Sherlock, that little piece of  _shite_  is not fit to lick your boots."

"Well, I know that  _now_ ," Sherlock said drily, his humor easing some of the tightness in John's chest. "But at the time...well, at the time I thought he was my friend." The hand on John's knee squeezed. "Before I knew what a friend really was."

John felt a rush of tenderness, so thick he felt like it was choking him. He put his hand over Sherlock's on his knee, his own damp palm pressed tight to the back of that elegant, long-fingered hand. Then he picked up that hand, holding it palm up in his own.

"I will always be your friend, Sherlock," he said, his voice shaking with the intensity of his emotions. "But if you are interested, if you think you want more, we can do more. Whatever you want, as long as you want. And we can stop whenever you want."

Slowly, slowly, giving Sherlock plenty of time to pull away, John lifted their joined hands. He bowed his head, placing a gentle kiss to the pale skin of Sherlock's inner wrist. And then, because he was so close and he could no longer resist, he let his tongue slip out, licking a slow circle soft and wet over that tender skin, feeling Sherlock's pulse jump underneath his tongue. Sherlock made a low, desperate noise, and John knew Sherlock must be able to feel him smile against his wrist.

"Hard to arouse?" John said, his voice taut with suppressed exultation. "That sounds like a fantastic fucking  _challenge_."


	12. The Promise

John felt unbelievably light, like he could just float away. All the anger and uncertainty of the past few days seemed to have melted away, leaving him buzzing with simple happiness.  _Sherlock wanted him_. Tomorrow he might worry again, knowing that Sherlock was skittish and changeable and easily bored, but for tonight he just wanted to hold this knowledge close to him, to savor it.

He gave Sherlock's wrist a final squeeze. "I'm fair knackered," he said, "and you must be too."

He pulled back the duvet and fumbled over to the other side of the bed, drawing Sherlock down with him as he lay down.

"Sleep is inefficient," Sherlock grumbled, but John could sense the half-heartedness of his complaining. He was already nestling into his pillow, his breath turning slow and soft with relaxation.

John smiled, pulling the duvet up over both of them. They lay side by side, and yet John couldn't help himself. His hand strayed out until his fingertips were just barely brushing Sherlock's wrist, finding the tender skin there still slightly damp from his mouth. Sherlock's pulse beat warm and vibrant beneath, and it felt like every delicate oscillation of Sherlock's pulse echoed in John's own heart. Suddenly, the slender tendons beneath his hand pulled taut and twisted. With the flexibility of his violinist's wrists Sherlock brushed his fingertips down the back of John's hand, from wrist to fingertips, without dislodging John's touch on his pulse. He did it once, twice, and a third time, each gentle stroke sending sparks through John's body.

John sighed in happiness, the beat of Sherlock's pulse and the stroking of his fingertips a gentle accompaniment to their soft breaths. He let the brush of Sherlock's touch lull him into sleep, beguiled with visions of what else those clever graceful hands could do.

* * *

He woke sometime deep in the night, wrapped in a luxurious warmth. As he slowly surfaced toward consciousness he realized that he and Sherlock were tangled together again. He raised his head slightly, taking in their relative positions. Hard to tell if one of them had gathered the other in; given that they were squarely in the middle of the bed they more likely had both moved toward each other, drawn as if by complementary magnets.

A sudden twitch from the body against his sharpened his attention. This must have been what woke him. He watched Sherlock's long, lean body closely in the dim light. There it was again, a twitch and a muffled whine. And then another and another, small smothered sounds of distress and aborted little jerky movements, as if Sherlock were dreaming of running, or fighting.  _Or falling_ , his traitorous mind supplied, stopping his breath for a moment.

"Shhh..." John breathed, gently tracing his blunt fingers through the shaggy hair. "It's okay, Sherlock. You're safe." Another few twitches. John felt unbearably protective as he looked down at the too-thin face, so vulnerable in sleep — sharp cheekbones and lush lips exaggerated by the dark shadows, a slight furrow of distress marring that wide, pale brow.

"Hush love," he heard himself say, his voice the barest whisper in the silent room. "You're all right now, Sherlock. You're home." He traced his fingers through the soft hair again, feeling Sherlock start to ease against his body. The pale brow smoothed, and Sherlock seemed to unconsciously push into John's touch. John smiled and pressed a kiss to the soft skin at Sherlock's temple before lying down again, gathering him close.

* * *

When John woke again the bed was empty. He could hear the gentle tapping of Sherlock at the computer keyboard. When he lifted his head, rubbing his bleary eyes, Sherlock was sitting fully dressed at the desk chair, his back stiff and straight, apparently engrossed in the computer.

"G'morning," John mumbled. No reply.

John hummed to himself, his happiness not diminished in the least by the morning light, and went into the loo. A shower and shave later and he felt much more awake. He was off today, the benefit of having worked a Sunday shift yesterday, so he changed into jeans, a t-shirt, and a soft jumper before wandering into the kitchen to make two cups of tea and two plates of toast.

He left tea and toast by Sherlock's elbow, moderately certain that it would still be there, ignored, by lunchtime. He brought in the paper, and since Sherlock had commandeered the only chair he settled down on the bed to read it. He sipped his tea, leafing through the paper, resisting the urge to call out headlines to Sherlock of what might be interesting cases. God, he would be happy when they got Moran out of the way. He wondered idly if they could find a way to re-let Baker Street. Maybe Sherlock could simulate a black mold infestation or something to encourage the current tenants to leave. He didn't think Mrs. Hudson would mind...

He skimmed through the classifieds, looking for the crossword. A flash of color caught his attention and he turned back a page. Someone had intercepted the paper and circled one of the ads in thick red ink. It looked like a standard legal notice regarding settlement of an estate, the kind of thing John would never have looked at twice. He set his teacup down and folded the paper, bringing it to Sherlock.

"Look at this."

Sherlock flicked his gaze over and his mouth pinched with annoyance.

"You know what it means?"

Sherlock nodded briefly, pausing all the video feeds running along the right-hand side of his screen, and doing something incredibly complicated to what seemed to be a window full of computer code that was taking up the majority of the rest of the large laptop screen before turning his attention more fully to John.

"It's Mycroft being whimsical," he said, with such contempt in the last word that John snorted in laughter. Sherlock slanted a glance up at him, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "This is how we communicated while I was away."

"So it's a code?" John rested his hip on the desk, looking at the ad in interest. "It looks just like the others."

"Exactly the point. It's not optimal for speed of communication, although now that The Times has put their advertisements online it is quicker than when we first established this contingency. But it is virtually impossible to crack. One would have to know which notice is false, and then know which book is needed to decode it. And the book we chose is such a rare edition as to be almost unobtainable."

"A book code, like the Black Lotus used?" His brow wrinkled. "But we can't decode it without the book." He was very aware that Sherlock had arrived at his flat with only the contents of his pockets — a wad of bills in a dozen different currencies and about five different passports, none of them in his actual name.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. Mycroft and I established this contingency as young men. We would hardly rely on carting a rare edition of a novel about with us everywhere. We both memorized it."

"Oh. Of course.  _Obviously_." John rolled his eyes. He had a vision of Mycroft and Sherlock as young men, poring over some obscure volume, preparing for God only knows what mysterious circumstance that would require a coded exchange of messages. Christ, to have been a fly on the wall of the Holmes household as those two were growing up. "So, what's it say?"

John watched in fascination as Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, apparently accessing the book from his memory, crossing out numbers as he went and stopping every few moments to write a few words in the margin of the paper in his fine, spidery script. John started to see the pattern; the words were apparently inconsequential, the numbers paired in groups in threes — apparently a three-digit page number and a three-digit word number. Sherlock got to the end and John squinted at the writing more closely.

"French, no less," he teased. "You poncey bastards."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John before translating aloud. "Flat four two zero, send your doctor to retrieve."

"That's down the hall," John remarked, hiding the little frisson of pleasure that ran through him at the term  _your doctor_.

Sherlock nodded. "It appears Mycroft has sent us a package. Would you, John?"

"John-of-all-trades and general fetcher of things, at your service," John answered good-naturedly.

The box was big indeed, addressed to the woman in 420. John had often noticed parcels outside her door so the delivery had likely gone unnoticed by anyone watching the building. You could not fault Mycroft's research.

John wrestled it back into his flat and opened it up. Enough clothing for Sherlock that John would have to clear space in his wardrobe, a few non-perishable foodstuffs that Sherlock might be tempted to actually consume, and another external hard drive.

John brought the hard drive over to Sherlock, who fell on it with a glad exclamation. He immediately hooked it up and started skimming through the contents in yet another window. John puttered around contentedly, stowing everything away. He put a few of the chocolate biscuits on a plate, swapping them out for the untouched cold toast, and settled back in to do the Sudoku.

* * *

As lunchtime approached he considered his options, pulling a few different takeaway menus from his drawer. He cast a glance at the apparently unnoticed plate of biscuits by Sherlock's elbow and decided there was no point in asking Sherlock what he would like. He would order from the restaurant that gave the biggest portions, and see if he could force the leftovers on Sherlock for dinner at least.

He had just pulled out his mobile to call the Indian place when Sherlock spoke.

"So you've changed your mind, then?"

"Hmmm?" He looked at the menus he had put away. "About Thai? I didn't think you had a preference."

"Not about Thai. About...us." John raised his head in surprise, belatedly paying closer attention. Sherlock's eyes were fixed on the computer screen, his voice carefully neutral and his posture stiff and guarded.

John carefully put the menu and mobile down, and walked over to Sherlock's side.

"Sherlock," he said gently, as the obstinate man pretended to ignore him, tapping away on the computer despite the color high on his cheeks. John sighed and grasped the desk chair, one hand solid on the back of it and one gripping the seat perilously close to Sherlock's groin. With a giant heave he turned the entire combination of chair and gangly man to face him.

Wrenched away from the computer, Sherlock folded his hands in his lap, frowning down at them intently. John cupped his face gently with one hand, not forcing it upwards, just providing a point of contact. "I have  _not_  changed my mind," he stated firmly. "Why on earth would you think that?"

Sherlock raised his head at that, and John's heart twisted to see the surprise and wariness in his light eyes. Those eyes darted around the room, taking in the newspaper, the cup of tea, John's shaven face...

"Ah." John smiled indulgently, the knot of worry in his belly easing. "Too much business as usual?" He traced his fingers behind Sherlock's ear, ruffling the hair there before leaning in. "I know better than to distract you while you're working," he breathed into Sherlock's ear, glorying in the fine shiver that ran through Sherlock's body in response. "If you wanted me to throw you on the bed and snog you silly instead, you had only to ask." He ended with a quick lick and a nip to Sherlock's earlobe, smiling at the sharp intake of breath that elicited.

He straightened back up, watching the calculations ticking through Sherlock's marvelous eyes as the man apparently revised his deductions. "You were...allowing me to work?" Sherlock repeated tentatively, as if testing out the words.

"I know the work comes first," John said, trying to inject as much reassurance into his tone as possible. "And we both want this bastard Moran neutralized. But whenever you want me, Sherlock, I'm here." He leaned in again, watching Sherlock's eyes widen and his breath catch at his proximity. He stopped a few inches away, letting Sherlock take him in, breathing each other's air. "Like I said last night. Whatever you want. For as long as you want." It felt dangerous and exciting, laying himself so bare.

He grazed his lips over Sherlock's jaw, indulging himself in a small sucking bite to that elegant neck that had Sherlock gasping in surprise. John gave a final nip and pulled back to see Sherlock's pupils blown wide with arousal. He smiled wickedly, letting his voice go low and hoarse with everything he was feeling. "In the meantime, I'm more than content to lie over there on the bed, watching you and thinking of all the things I'd like to do to you..." His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he saw Sherlock's gaze hone in on the movement. He looked mesmerized.

"What would you like to do to me?" Sherlock asked, his own voice gone low and ragged. The words from anyone else would seem like a tease, but John took in Sherlock's openly curious gaze and realized that Sherlock really didn't entirely know.

"In time...everything," John rasped honestly. Now Sherlock licked his own lips and John was the one mesmerized, eyes fixed on that adorable cupid's bow upper lip and the lush pink lower lip, now glistening temptingly. "...But first... _Jesus Christ_  Sherlock, your bloody  _mouth_ ," he said fervently.

Sherlock studied John's face for a moment, and then gave a quick nod of assent. John leaned in to capture those amazing lips, and...encountered only empty air, as Sherlock slid fluidly to his knees in front of him.

John felt Sherlock's hands fumbling at his belt and let out a very undignified squawk of surprise. Half-laughing in reaction, he tried to raise Sherlock up by his elbows, and when that didn't work John fell rather less gracefully to his knees as well, both of them crammed into the small space between the bed and the desk.

"Sherlock..." he started, still chuckling, his hands pinning Sherlock's at his waist. Sherlock went unnaturally still and John's amusement died.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked sharply, his expression suddenly guarded.

John looked at him with concern. "No. I just..." He felt like he was trying to find his footing on shifting ground. "I just meant — " He tried to smile but he could still feel his own brow furrowed with confusion as he reached out to run a thumb reverently across Sherlock's lower lip. "I just meant that I wanted to kiss you. If that's all right?" he ended uncertainly.

As if to taunt him further, Sherlock's lower lip protruded in a pout. "I told you, John, I'm not an innocent," he said acerbically. "You don't have to coddle me with preliminaries..."

" _Preliminaries?_  Sherlock, if you don't like to kiss, just tell me — " John began earnestly.

He saw the flash of uncertainty before Sherlock could mask it, and felt like smacking himself on the forehead. Dammit, he should have  _known_. How could he have overlooked the significance of that awkward kiss last night?

"You don't even know, do you? Christ, if I ever needed more proof that Wilkes was the biggest clot on the face of the earth..." He shook his head in stunned amazement as a slow-burning anger welled inside him once again. His voice was a low growl when he spoke again. "To have  _that mouth_  and not want to kiss it...that's a fucking  _crime_..."

Before Sherlock could object he leaned in, capturing his lips, finding them stiff and closed against his. He nipped gently, sucking on Sherlock's lower lip, running his tongue over the closed seam of Sherlock's mouth until he felt him relax and open underneath him. Then he coaxed his way gently in, soft and sweet and hot, until finally Sherlock made a soft low sound that he swallowed and began to kiss him back.

John wrapped Sherlock up in his arms, pressing them closer until they were crushed together from lips to knees, both of them groaning at the contact of their bodies. Sherlock's kiss was all the more erotic for being unpracticed, John answering his tentative and experimental forays with tender assurance. Sherlock tasted of tea and spice and himself and John was greedy for it, licking his way in deeper with devouring strokes of his tongue, his blood singing with Sherlock's increasingly eager response.

He shuffled in closer, crowding Sherlock back against the bed, slipping his knee between Sherlock's until Sherlock was straddling his thigh, still kneeling. John gripped him tighter, pressing into him with every movement of their mouths, a slow dirty grind in counterpoint to the lazy tangling of their tongues.

John was a quiet man, at heart. There were a lot of things he was still holding back, things that he could not say to Sherlock outside of his dreams. But here,  _this_ , this was his language. Everything he couldn't tell Sherlock out loud he poured into his kiss. With the chaste barely-there brush of lips he said  _I care about you._  The lush slide of his tongue into warmth said  _I want you_. The fierce graze of his teeth against Sherlock's full bottom lip said  _I'll kill anyone who ever hurts you_. And the soft, slow exploration, the sharing of breath, the gentle persuading — this relentless tender unraveling of Sherlock's reserve said  _I love you, I love you, I love you_.

When he finally pulled away they were both breathless and gasping. John ignored Sherlock's noise of protest, letting his forehead slide down into the crook of Sherlock's neck. He pulled in a shuddering breath against the damp fragrant skin before finally lifting his head. He would remember this sight for the rest of his life. Sherlock looked completely undone — his face flushed, his eyes dazed and sleepy, his mouth kiss-swollen and lax. He was slumped back against the bed in utter abandon, still straddling John's knee, his hands gripping the shirt at John's waist.

John felt a sudden certainty. With the calm purpose and clarity of mind he had rarely experienced outside of the operating room or facing a gunman in a shadowy alley, he knew just what to do. He squared his shoulders, feeling his heart start to thump a fast yet steady beat.

"Liked that, did you?" he said gently, running his thumb over Sherlock's lower lip again, watching Sherlock's eyelids flutter in reaction. "How long will it take you to review all the footage?"

"Hmmm?" John felt an electrifying bolt of satisfaction as he saw Sherlock struggling to marshal his scattered wits.

"The footage," he repeated gently. "How long?"

Sherlock shrugged bonelessly. "So many variables," he murmured. "Number of hours of footage recorded per day, number of feeds streamed simultaneously..."

John smiled. "Estimate, beautiful," he said. "Factor in six hours per day for sleep," he added somewhat sternly.

Sherlock's face was something to see, a mixture of befuddlement, petulance, and stunned arousal...oh yes, John was reading this right.

"Sixteen point six seven days," Sherlock fumbled out, his eyes wide.

It had been two days already. John nodded once, decisively. "Two weeks then. Here's what's going to happen."

He gently detached Sherlock's fingers from his shirt and moved to sit beside him. He slung his arm around Sherlock's back, pulling him in close. "You're going to let me set the pace here." He could feel Sherlock tensing to object, and carried on obdurately. "You work on the footage and whatever other amazing and no-doubt illegal things you are doing on that laptop, but whenever you're ready for something else I'll be here. We're going to take it nice and slow, and figure out what we both like." He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's temple. "If there's anything you don't like, if you want me to stop, you just tell me. But let me lead, all right? Trust me on this."

"John. You don't need to..." Sherlock's voice was unsteady. Unconvincing.

"I don't need to," John said, interrupting with confidence. "I want to." He pressed another kiss to Sherlock's jaw. "I am going to seduce you, Sherlock Holmes," he rumbled into Sherlock's ear, smiling as Sherlock's breath grew unsteady again. "Not because you need it, but because you deserve it. We both do." He gave Sherlock a squeeze. "Trust me?"

Sherlock's head lifted, those uncanny pale eyes looking at John with complete sincerity. "I've always trusted you, John."

John felt the last bit of tension leaving his shoulders. "Good." He kissed Sherlock one more time, swift and soft — a promise. "That's good."

* * *


	13. The Plan

John sat on the bed, sipping tea and maintaining the barest pretense of reading a medical journal. In truth, he was watching Sherlock and planning his campaign with a single-minded intensity.  Granted, watching a beautiful man and planning his seduction was no hardship, and so John took his own good time devising his strategy.  

His objective was clear, and he had openly declared his intent to employ an offensive strategy.  He had seized the initiative and would now retain and exploit it.  A _dvance and retreat, exercise skillful maneuvering, and always — always — maintain the element of surprise._  John smiled to himself.  It was going to be lovely.

“You’re scheming,” Sherlock said dryly, without even turning his head.

John hummed his agreement.  “I most certainly am.”

Sherlock scoffed, but John could see the very tips of his ears reddening slightly, a new awareness of John in the tilt of his neck and spine.   _Lovely_.

* * *

He began with small touches.  

He and Sherlock had always been more... _tactile_...than two mates typically were.  For all that Sherlock scrupulously avoided physical contact with those he disliked — in short, the majority of the human race — he had always been careless of personal space with those closest to him.  John saw it in rare circumstances with Mrs. Hudson — Sherlock giving her a reassuring squeeze after a kidnapping, or spinning her around giddily with the news of a new serial murder.  It was John, however, for whom he had always reserved his most routine and shameless infringements of the typical personal boundaries between friends:  hanging over John’s shoulder as he critiqued his blog, pressing close against John’s back on a stakeout, asking John to reach into his very _pockets_...

John had never minded.  From the start, he was closer to Sherlock than to any of his other mates, and the rules of personal space that typically applied between two blokes seemed simply inapplicable to the brilliant, alien creature that was Sherlock Holmes.  And so John had allowed Sherlock to rest his chin on his shoulder without comment during the blog-critiquing sessions, had stood still and steady as Sherlock pressed against him on stakeouts, had reached into Sherlock’s pockets at his direction without hesitation.  As always, where Sherlock led, John had followed.  What he hadn’t done, until now, was _initiate_ such breaches of personal space.  

It was heady stuff, finally being able to touch Sherlock freely, in all the little ways.  A glide of John’s fingertips against his as John pressed a cup of tea into his hand, a squeeze of his shoulder in passing, a kiss to the top of his head and an absent brush of fingers through his hair when leaving a plate of biscuits by his side.  

At first Sherlock seemed startled and confused by these small gestures, but he soon seemed to adjust to and then even crave them.  His fingers curled around John’s on the cup of tea, his hand covered John’s where it rested on his shoulder, his head pushed up into John’s hand and lips like a nuzzling cat.

At night, John would fall asleep to the quiet tapping of Sherlock’s fingers on the keyboard.  He would always awaken, however, when Sherlock slid into bed beside him.  The man was all sharp elbows and cold feet, but all the same John would murmur happily as Sherlock pulled him close, shamelessly burying his cold nose in the crook of John’s neck.

John would smile to himself, thinking of how he had convinced himself that Sherlock would never be a cuddler.  He couldn’t have been more wrong.  How had he not realized the implicit sensuality of this man?  He should have known, just based on the silk shirts and Egyptian cotton sheets.  As much as Sherlock disdained the demands of his transport, it didn’t mean they didn’t exist — they were just suppressed, finally emerging tenfold when allowed to do so.  Just as Sherlock gorged himself on rich food after a week-long fast, or wallowed in sleep after days of wakefulness, he now seemed to be luxuriating in physical affection after years — decades, perhaps — of being starved for it.

There had been no further discussion of exactly what it was they were doing.  Sherlock could be counted upon to never broach the subject of feelings.  John, in turn, scrupulously avoided any discussion of his feelings for Sherlock, half-convinced that Sherlock’s decision to pursue a physical relationship was just a lark on his part, a whim that might be reversed at any moment.  

He had captured Sherlock’s interest for now, but what of later, when they were freed from the confines of this flat and the novelty had faded?  It would be hard enough to let Sherlock lapse back into a friend and flatmate now — if John spoke his feelings aloud he might ruin things permanently and irreparably.  It was not a chance he was willing to take.  So he pulled Sherlock closer in the night, holding him tighter, tracing his fingers through the short curls, enjoying what he had.  It wasn’t everything, but it was enough.

* * *

Phase Two of the plan involved thorough and relentless snogging at every opportunity.  

John started by surprising Sherlock.  Despite John’s nagging, Sherlock slept rarely and erratically.  When he did sleep, however, he slept deeply.  But John is a patient man, and he didn’t have a shift at the surgery that day.  So, on day four of his campaign he made a cup of tea, settled in beside Sherlock, and waited.

When Sherlock started to stir, John carefully set his tea aside.  He watched as Sherlock’s eyes opened, hazed blue with sleep, and then immediately sharpened to full awareness.

“Hullo there, gorgeous.”  John bit his lower lip, trying not to smile.  Half the fun of the endearments was watching Sherlock’s reaction to each new one.  This one managed to make him look both disconcerted and pleased at the same time.  

John carefully placed his arm on the other side of Sherlock, leaning in slowly enough to give him time to object.  Closer, closer — watching those eyes widen, Sherlock’s mouth softening around the edges.  Even closer, until their lips were barely brushing, and John could feel Sherlock’s shiver of anticipation.

“Yeah?” he asked against Sherlock’s lips, just to be certain.  

“Oh, do get _on_ with it, John,” Sherlock snapped, the unsteadiness in his voice taking the sting from his words.

“Prat,” John smiled against his lips.  He started slowly, lazily, sampling Sherlock’s mouth.  God, the man tasted as good as he looked, sweet and lush, and John could hardly believe that he had managed to go days without tasting him again.  

He could feel Sherlock straining his neck upwards, trying to deepen the kiss.  He wound his hand into those curls — not pulling, just holding him steady, staying in control.  Sherlock practically growled in frustration.  That was just — wow.  It sent a jolt straight down John’s spine.

John let the leash slip on his control a little, intensifying the kiss.  Sherlock was clinging to him now, making soft, low noises of entreaty, and it made John feel fierce and possessive.  God, he wanted Sherlock — wanted him now and completely, wanted to devour and claim him.  He scraped his teeth along that endless, tender throat.  Finally he pulled back, breathing raggedly.  Sherlock lay pliant underneath him, his eyes shut, his mouth kiss-swollen.  Bloody hell, he looked delicious.

“Any time,” John said, his voice rough and strained.  He watched Sherlock’s eyes flutter open, looking dazed.  “Any time you want this, you come and let me know, yeah?  You decide when you want to work and when you need...distraction.  I’m leaving it to you.”  He saw both surprise and comprehension settle over Sherlock’s expression, and he knew he had guessed right.  It was just like that bastard Wilkes to have gotten all stroppy about Sherlock paying attention to anything but him.  Sherlock gave a quick nod, his gaze openly assessing John’s reaction.

“Good,” John said firmly.  “I’ll make eggs.”

* * *

Captain John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, currently of the Campaign to Seduce the Pants Off of Sherlock Holmes, was deeming Phase Two a resounding success.

Sherlock sat at the desk most times, engrossed in the work, his pale eyes darting around the computer screen, those long elegant fingers playing across the keyboard as if it were an instrument.  John puttered about the flat when he didn’t have a shift at the surgery, drinking endless cups of tea, reading his medical journals or wasting time on his laptop, and generally pretending he wasn’t ogling Sherlock.

From time to time Sherlock would pause all the video feeds, closing his eyes and sighing.  He would lace his violinist’s fingers together and stretch his long lean back, the demands of his transport finally having penetrated his formidable concentration.  And John would wait, smiling internally, as Sherlock stood and restlessly walked the small flat — shifting things around purposelessly in the kitchen, standing by the window curtains that could not be opened, and always slowly, inexorably, drifting closer to John.  

When he was finally at John’s side, shifting from foot to foot in an odd mixture of eagerness and anxiety, John would put down his book or tea or computer or crossword.   He would reach up and draw Sherlock down to the bed, or press him up against the wall, or pin him against the kitchen counter, and he would kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him, until they were both flushed and breathless.  At the final moment, when John felt the edge of his control slipping, he would draw back.  He would rest his forehead against Sherlock’s, willing himself to calm, feeling Sherlock trembling in his arms.  

“John,” Sherlock would say shakily.

“Soon,” John would say, half apology and half promise.  “Soon.”


	14. The Surprise

John hauled himself up the last few stairs, as usual cursing his decision to let a flat on the fourth floor of a walk-up. Still, he smothered a smile as he turned his key in the lock. He never knew what to expect with Sherlock on the other side of that door, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

He opened the door and his heart seemed to stutter in his chest. Sherlock was motionless, lying on the bed backwards, head lolling off the edge.

"Sherlock!" John rushed forward, dropping the takeaway bag, reaching a hand out to check for a pulse. He almost screamed as the pale gray eyes snapped open, pinning him in place.

Sherlock's eyes scanned over John quickly. "Compiling data," he said absently, immediately closing his eyes again.

John felt his knees sag in relief. "Bloody  _fuck_ , Sherlock." He felt his annoyance mount as Sherlock pried a single eye open, examining him for a long moment and then closing it again without comment.

"Jesus," John said. "At least straighten yourself out. You'll have an awful crick in your neck. How long have you been lying like that?"

"Don't know," Sherlock said, his eyes snapping open again. "You don't have a sofa," he added accusingly, as if John's sad flat were an elaborate plot to inconvenience him.

He seemed to try to move, and a peeved expression settled on his face. "Stuck," he announced loftily, regarding John upside down, clearly expecting him to remedy the situation.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

"Language, John!" Sherlock rebuked.

John went to the other end of the bed, grabbed one of Sherlock's ankles in each hand, and hauled him none-too-gently further up the bed.

"Ouch!"

Already somewhat repentant, John more gently helped Sherlock lift his neck and shoulders and put a pillow under him.

"There, you git," he said fondly. "Finish compiling. I'll make tea."

By the time John had put the takeaway onto plates and readied the tea Sherlock was on his feet, pacing. His dressing gown flared out around him as he made every turn. How the man managed to look majestic in pajama bottoms, a t-shirt, and a blue striped dressing gown was beyond John.

"Bad day?" John asked sympathetically.

"Infuriating!" Sherlock snarled. "That's months of footage I've reviewed now...almost half of it...and there's  _nothing_!" His pacing grew more frenetic, his gestures wild. "I could be looking right at Moran and not know it!"

John moved to intercept Sherlock, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You'll find something. Give it time."

"Time!" Sherlock expostulated, knocking John's hand away inadvertently with another wild gesticulation. "I've  _given_  it time, John! A week of nothing else...of being trapped here, watching you suffer in pixelated images, while you go out every day, exposing yourself, and I can do nothing —  _nothing!_ — to protect you!"

John felt something in his chest twist. He had known Sherlock was getting a little stir-crazy, but he hadn't really realized what the past week had been like for him. Sherlock was pacing again, and on his next turn John stepped neatly in front of him, grabbing his wrists.

"Hey," he said gently, forcing Sherlock's gaze to his. "It's all right.  _I'm_  all right."

The frantic energy seemed to drain from Sherlock suddenly. He looked at John, and it sent a shiver down John's spine to see the fear in his eyes. "For now," Sherlock whispered, suddenly subdued. "But for how long, John? It's not even just that I cannot protect you...I am actually putting you at risk, every moment that I am here. He could be out there — today, tomorrow, any time, ready to put a bullet in your head, and there is  _nothing_  I can do to stop him."

"Stop that," John said sternly. "First of all, you  _will_  stop him. You are brilliant, and you will find a way. Second of all..." He pulled Sherlock closer, his arms tightening around the slim, tense frame. He could feel Sherlock's heart beating fast, too fast, against his cheek. "Risk or not, there is nowhere else I would rather you be."

Sherlock's chest heaved as he took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. One long-fingered hand came up to cup John's cheek, tilting his head up. Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's, eyes closed, shaking his head slightly. "I said dangerous..." he said, his mouth twisting into a bittersweet smile.

"...and here I am," John finished softly, cupping Sherlock's face in his hands in return and then placing a gentle kiss on his forehead. "Now drink your tea. I have a surprise for you."

He suppressed a giggle as Sherlock's mood seemed to shift dramatically, his eyes lighting up as he scanned John, trying to deduce the surprise.

"After dinner," John said, pushing the tea into Sherlock's hands and going to the kitchen to snag the takeaway plates. "And  _only_  if you eat."

Sherlock shot him a narrowed-eyed glare, but nonetheless ate all of his dinner hurriedly. John finished at a more leisurely pace, smiling inwardly at Sherlock's expectant expression.

He quickly did the washing up, ignoring Sherlock's impatient noises. Finally, he dried his hands on the dishtowel and walked over to his jacket, pulling the small bottle from an inner pocket, feeling a bit foolish for having made such a big deal of what was probably a silly idea.

"I noticed your wrists seemed to be bothering you a bit when you typed. Not surprising given how much you've been on the computer lately. I thought you could use a bit of a massage...if you liked. There's a physiotherapist at the surgery on Fridays — I told her my leg was bothering me again and she gave this to me. And that was before I even knew you had bollixed up your neck..."

John realized he was babbling, and shut up suddenly. He couldn't read Sherlock's expression as the man prowled closer to him, finally taking the bottle from him, opening the cap, and sniffing the contents.

"No exotic South African poison," John said sheepishly. "Just almond massage oil, as advertised."

"Hmmm..." Sherlock rumbled deep and low, apparently considering the offer. He tilted a glance at John. "How do you want me, then?"

_Bloody hell._ John swallowed, his mouth suddenly a bit too dry. Well, two could play at that game. John took the bottle back, letting his fingers linger on Sherlock's as he did. He went to the bed and sat down on the edge, putting the bottle on the bedside table and taking off his socks and shoes. Then he put a pillow behind his back and leaned back against the headboard. Watching Sherlock watch him, he slowly spread his legs, bending his knees so his feet were flat on the bed.

"Come here."

It was a rare and beautiful thing, watching Sherlock Holmes do as he was told. He slipped off his dressing gown and put one knee on the bed between John's spread legs. He seemed surprised when John guided him around until he was sitting back against his chest, but allowed himself to be pushed and pulled until they were arranged. Sherlock had to slump quite a bit, but in his typical boneless fashion he managed to end up nestled quite comfortably, the back of his head against John's collarbone, John's bent legs bracing him solidly at waist and thighs.

Sherlock's hands seemed to flutter uncertainly before settling, folded together on his chest. John smiled, pouring a bit of the oil into his left hand, waiting for a moment to let it warm. He put the bottle down and gently untangled Sherlock's left hand from his right. He clasped their left palms together, letting the oil dribble between, before he started to move his thumb in slow, deep circles on Sherlock's palm.

"You have beautiful hands. Has anyone ever told you that?"

Sherlock gave a minute shake of his head, his breathing growing deep and even. John used both his hands now, smoothing down each of Sherlock's fingers, rubbing deeply on the palm before working his way up the wrist. He felt Sherlock tense for a moment as he rubbed along the sore tendon, before he relaxed again with a sigh.

"I like to watch them," John continued, a hushed confession. "When you're talking...when you snap open that magnifying glass of yours...when you play the violin..."

If Sherlock felt John growing half-hard against his back, he gave no indication.

" _God_ , when you play that violin," John said fervently, working his way up the sinewy muscles of Sherlock's left forearm before massaging his bicep. "When you're lost in the music, and you don't even seem to notice me." He breathed the next words into Sherlock's ear. "I watch your fingers move against those strings and it just makes me... _want_."

Sherlock shivered, and John gave him a reassuring squeeze with his thighs. He put Sherlock's hand down on his own left thigh, and then pooled oil in his right hand before starting the process again with Sherlock's right palm.

"I'll play for you," Sherlock said somewhat abruptly. "When we're back at Baker Street." He rubbed his cheek against John's shirt, breathing a puff of warm air into the vee of his open collar. "I'll play Sarasate," he added somewhat breathlessly.

"Yes." John worked his hands up Sherlock's right forearm, imagining the muscle tensing and flexing as Sherlock wielded his bow like a weapon, his body swaying unconsciously in synchrony with his music. "You'll play for me, and I'll listen. And when you're done, you'll put your violin and bow away carefully — " At the top of Sherlock's right bicep now, John smoothed one hand firmly down each arm until he held Sherlock's hands palm up in his, rubbing one more deep circle into each palm with his thumbs. " — and you'll put these beautiful hands on me instead."

Sherlock made a fervent noise of agreement. "I could do that now," he said, his voice a full register deeper than even his usual deep baritone. Christ, but that sounded good, and John couldn't stop himself from bucking up a little at Sherlock's words. He breathed deeply, getting himself under control. "Soon," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of Sherlock's head before reaching for the bottle again.

John pooled the oil between his palms now. He slid his hands under the neck of Sherlock's t-shirt, cupping them on his shoulders before stroking firmly up Sherlock's neck with his thumbs. Sherlock groaned deep and seemed to melt, his head lolling back against John's chest as John worked the tension out of his shoulders and neck. John had always had good, strong hands, and he had a knack for this — instinctively finding the knots and loosening stiff muscles, feeling Sherlock growing pliant and mellow beneath his palms.

"Why?" Sherlock said. He didn't sound hurt or angry, just curious.

It took a moment for John to pick up the thread of the conversation again, lost as he had been in the feel of Sherlock's skin under his hands. "Why not now?" he said. "Because I want to know what you like first. I need to know what is good for you, every step of the way, and if it stops being good then we go no farther."

"I am not  _actually_  asexual, if that's what you're worried about," Sherlock said, his voice sounding somewhat peevish now. "Much as I may have wished to be in the past. Your...caution in these matters, although appreciated, is hardly necessary." The sharp edge of his voice softened, turning somewhat melancholy as he closed his eyes and continued. "I have no compunction about giving you satisfaction, John, but if you insist upon me receiving it in return you will be disappointed, and bitterness and anger will soon follow."

"Mmmm." John hummed thoughtfully, running his thumbs up firmly to the base of Sherlock's skull, choosing his words carefully. "Is that what you're worried about? That if you don't, er, achieve orgasm, I will consider it a personal failure on my part, and get angry at you?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed, his eyes still shut. "Won't you?"

"No," John said firmly, kissing Sherlock's temple. "I won't." He traced his fingers along the bottom of Sherlock's t-shirt. "Okay to take this off? I'll do your back."

Sherlock hesitated only a moment before nodding, shifting deliciously against John as John drew the t-shirt up over his head and off his arms, throwing it to the side.

Slicking his hands again, John rubbed down Sherlock's neck and along his spine, using Sherlock's passive weight to help him dig into the muscles under his shoulderblades.

"Don't get me wrong," he said meditatively. "I would love to make you come." He smiled as Sherlock's eyes flew open in startlement. He pushed his fingers down Sherlock's spine in a long sweep, lingering on the small of his back. "I'll wager you're gorgeous when you come," he whispered hoarsely into Sherlock's ear.

"John..." The word was formed from a shuddering breath as Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed again.

"But," John continued in a relatively normal tone of voice, "If it doesn't happen for you, that's all right too. As long as you're enjoying yourself, I'll be chuffed to bits." He returned to Sherlock's neck, slowing his movements to a leisurely caress. "How does that sound?"

"Good." Sherlock's voice was soft and dreamy. "That sounds...good."

John smiled. Sherlock hated repeating himself, so hearing him do so was proof positive that his wits had been scattered. John had told himself that this would just be a massage, that he would just see how Sherlock responded to being touched. Now, however, that he had the man sprawled across his lap so pliantly, seeing how incredibly responsive he was to his words, he couldn't help but push a little farther.

His left hand came up to card through Sherlock's hair, pulling gently at the short curls, watching as Sherlock's face smoothed out in bliss. He wound his other hand around to brush down that long line of exposed throat.

"This neck of yours," he said huskily. "I want to do things to it."

"Things?" Sherlock murmured.

Bracing Sherlock's head with the hand in his hair, John ducked down to graze his teeth over the lean line of Sherlock's throat. "I want to bite it," he growled into Sherlock's ear, emphasizing his words with a sharp nip to Sherlock's earlobe. "Suck a mark into it." He straightened up, running his fingertips now up and down, over the bump of Sherlocks' laryngeal prominence to the tender hollow of his suprasternal notch. "Show everyone that I had my mouth on you."

Sherlock made a low noise that John felt as much as heard, vibrating out from under his fingertips. John hadn't failed to notice Sherlock's growing arousal, the soft fabric of his pajama bottoms hiding nothing. He also hadn't failed to notice Sherlock's hand twitching restlessly, moving toward his waistband as John spoke and then away as he seemed to recollect himself.

John took a deep, steadying breath, his left hand again tangling in Sherlock's hair while his right snaked down, now wandering across Sherlock's chest, outlining the musculature there, carefully skirting the healing scar of his knife wound. His blood hummed with arousal and the heady rush of taking a gamble. But then again, John Watson had always been a gambler at heart.


	15. The Request

John took a deep, steadying breath, his left hand again tangling in Sherlock's hair while his right snaked down, now wandering across Sherlock's chest, outlining the musculature there, carefully skirting the healing scar of his knife wound. His blood hummed with arousal and the heady rush of taking a gamble. But then again, John Watson had always been a gambler at heart.

"You like the way I touch you, yeah?" he asked. Sherlock made a low, choked noise of assent, and John smiled. "Do you ever touch yourself?" he asked softly, timing the question with a brush of his thumb over Sherlock's nipple.

Sherlock shivered. He opened his eyes again, the haziness fading somewhat as he tilted his head to look at John with an air of cautious assessment. Whatever he saw in John's face, it seemed to ease his mind.

"At times," he said, seeming to choose his words carefully.

John's cock twitched at just the thought of it. He put his right hand over Sherlock's — not guiding, just resting it there.

"Show me?" he said, careful to make it a question.

Sherlock's pale gaze raked over John's face. "You'd like to see that," he said, with an air of discovery.

"God, yes," John blurted out, and immediately cringed at the vehemency of his words. "If you like," he added, trying for an air of relative detachment and utterly failing.

"Hmmmmm." Sherlock squeezed John's hand and then let it go, his own long fingers traveling toward his taut pale belly to play with the drawstring of his pajama bottoms. "What do I get in return?"

John made a sound incomprehensible even to himself, half a groan and half a chuckle as Sherlock's elegant fingers ghosted along the ridge of his erection over the soft cotton of his pajama bottoms. "Bloody tease." He skated his hand to Sherlock's other nipple, circling it slowly.

"You're one to talk," Sherlock rejoined, his lofty tone of voice somewhat spoiled by the shiver of arousal.

John sucked a little mark onto the pale stretch of Sherlock's neck, considering. "What do you want then?" he asked.

"Mmmm. What you're asking is quite  _intimate_ , John. I'd be shamelessly  _exposed_." Damn him, but he knew what his voice was doing to John. Just hearing those words in that dark, sinful voice made John's cock twitch in anticipation.

"Quit negotiating, you git, and just tell me."

"You stop hiding from me. Let me see you."

John's hands stilled in surprise. He hadn't been hiding from Sherlock, had he? Granted, he was self-conscious about his scar. Although he wore vests to sleep in when he was alone, he had been wearing t-shirts to bed and dressing in the bathroom since Sherlock had returned. And it wasn't just the scar. John was not generally a vain man, but next to Sherlock's flawless beauty he couldn't help but see the contrast. He had no self-delusions — he was, in essence, a short, scarred man, with prematurely gray hair and a belly that was growing slightly podgy despite his best efforts. So...yes, goddammit, he acknowledged to himself, as always Sherlock was unflinchingly astute. He had been hiding without even meaning to.

Sherlock had sat up, turning halfway around to watch John for his decision. As John took a deep breath and then nodded decisively, he turned all the way around, settling on his knees between John's spread legs. John pulled off his belt and then tugged the tails of his shirt free. He fumbled, his fingers suddenly clumsy as he unbuttoned his cuffs. With an impatient noise, Sherlock reached for the button at the top of his collar, and then halted suddenly, his eyes seeking John's for permission.

John nodded again, trying to relax his arms at his sides, leaning his head back against the headboard. He swallowed hard as Sherlock efficiently dispatched the rest of the buttons without fanfare and spread the sides of the shirt wide. John leaned forward to shrug it off and then settled back against the headboard with a wry smile. He could feel a blush creeping up his neck, heating his cheeks.

"Look your fill, then."

He had thought it would be embarrassing, to have that laser-bright gaze on his body. As Sherlock's eyes scanned his torso, taking in every detail with a look of rapt attention on his face, however, John instead found himself becoming all the more aroused. Sherlock seemed fascinated with every part of him. The pale eyes spent long moments lingering on his scar, but also followed the trail of hair along his belly with enthrallment, scrutinized his collarbone with single-minded absorption, examined with glee the slight pattern of freckling that scattered his shoulders.

"Turn," Sherlock said imperiously, shuffling back on his knees to give John room.

John sighed but complied, drawing his knees up and turning around to kneel, facing the headboard. Uncertain what to do with his hands he gripped the top of the headboard, bracing himself. He felt Sherlock shuffle close again, so close he could feel the warmth of the man all along his back.

He felt Sherlock lean in closer, his warm breath tickling John's shoulder as he scrutinized the scar left by the exit wound. John gripped the headboard until his knuckles were white, paralyzed under Sherlock's keen gaze — hopelessly and helplessly aroused beyond measure by the sexually suggestive position, the warmth of the man at his back, the feel of Sherlock's breath on his neck.

He felt more than saw the movement as Sherlock reached out to trace the line of his scar, and the roughness of his voice startled even him.

"Sherlock, by God, if you touch me..."

He hung his head, his breath coming in harsh pants, not even certain how he would finish that sentence.  _I'll come in my pants like a teenager? I'll bugger you senseless whether you like it or not?_ All he knew was that his control was stretched to near-breaking. As always, Sherlock had managed to turn the tables.

"Yes. Of course," Sherlock said, sounding somewhat chastened. John heard him shuffling back again. "We'll do...the other thing now."

John turned back around and then they were suddenly close again, both kneeling. John leaned forward and up, slowly, pressing a brief, chaste kiss to Sherlock's lips. "Only if you want to," he muttered, hoping the  _please please oh god please_  in his thoughts wasn't plastered all over his face.

Sherlock's mouth quirked wickedly. "I want to." He planted a hand on each of John's shoulders and pushed him back to sitting. "As we were," he said bossily, settling himself back into John's lap as if he belonged there by God-given right, hauling up on John's thighs until John's legs once again braced him on each side.

"Jee- _sus_ ," John breathed, having been not quite ready for the sensation of a lapful of consulting detective, Sherlock's long, bare back pressed up against John's now-bare chest. "You feel fantastic."

"Mmmm," Sherlock murmured, rubbing up against John's naked chest like a giant, lithe cat, apparently enjoying the scrape of John's chest hair against his skin.

"Bloody fuck, Sherlock," John gritted out, gripping Sherlock's left shoulder and right hip to keep him still. "Keep on wriggling your arse against me like that and you're going to make me come in my pants."

Sherlock lolled his head back, looking suddenly painfully young and carefree as that wicked grin quirked his mouth again. "Acceptable," he said, lapsing back into his boneless sprawl.

"What..." the words stopped up in John's throat as Sherlock snagged the bottle of almond oil, dripped a small amount into his palm, and then unceremoniously delved a hand into his pajama bottoms and began stroking. "Oh bloody fucking  _Christ_ ," John breathed, enthralled.

"Keep touching me," Sherlock instructed, a beautiful flush spreading up his chest as his hand moved leisurely beneath the soft cotton.

"Bossy," John groaned, unable to stop himself from bucking up against the warm curve of Sherlock's arse, feeling the jolt of sheer pleasure wash over him. "Oh Christ, yeah. Oh, bloody hell, Sherlock, just  _look at you_."

John couldn't decide what to do with his hands, he wanted them everywhere. He finally settled with his left hand tangled in the inky chaos of Sherlock's curls, as his right hand wandered Sherlock's torso, alternately rubbing those exquisitely sensitive nipples and smoothing the milky-pale belly. Sherlock's hand was stroking in earnest now, still teasingly half-hidden by the cotton of his pajama bottoms.

"God, Sherlock...just  _gorgeous_...bloody fuck, the way you look...the way you  _feel_..." John couldn't have stopped the words if he wanted to but in any case they seemed only to spur Sherlock on. He was writhing in earnest now, making soft, frantic noises, bucking up hard into his fist.

"John..." Sherlock's voice wavered uncertainly, in between huffing breaths, as his brow furrowed. "I think,  _ah_ , I think I might —" The gray eyes flew open to lock on John's face, intense and startled.

"Oh, god," John muttered. He tangled his left hand more firmly in Sherlock's hair, sucking another bite into his pale neck, grinding shamelessly up into him now. "Yes, Sherlock, come on,  _come on_..."

" _John_ ," Sherlock said again, breathless and pleading, his whole body arched with tension, his hand moving frantically, ruthlessly, along his rigid length.

"Sherlock," John breathed. "You're so close." He cradled Sherlock's head against his chest, instinctively moving his left hand down, pressing two fingers to that lush, open mouth to feel Sherlock's frantic breaths. "So close, come on, show me, let go,  _show me, love_..."

Sherlock dipped his head and sucked John's two fingers deep into his mouth, and, oh,  _bloody fucking hell_ his mouth was warm and soft and needy and his pale eyes were still locked on John's, pupils blown wide. John cried out, a startled exhalation, as Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut and then Sherlock was coming, crying out and biting down on John's fingers, his whole body twisting and arching as he spilled into his fist, and it was the most beautiful fucking thing John had ever seen.

"Oh god, oh  _Christ_ ," John stuttered, holding Sherlock tight as he came, watching the waves wash over him until finally he relaxed, shaking, into boneless languor. "Oh fuck," John gritted out, closing his eyes tight, and then he was thrusting hard up against the soft curve of Sherlock's arse, once, twice, feeling the tension coiling in his belly, hot and white. A third time and he was coming hard, the surge of pleasure so keen it was almost painful, helplessly grinding and pulsing against Sherlock's soft body as the burning rush scoured through his body, leaving him breathless and weak.

They lay in a tangled sprawl, panting and shaking. John finally stirred himself and Sherlock flopped bonelessly over to his side, John turning on his side as well to look at him.

"God Sherlock...that was...that was  _brilliant_..."

Sherlock's shy smile sent a jolt of warmth through John's chest.

"It was, wasn't it?" Sherlock said. His brow furrowed a bit in consideration. "Shouldn't matter, in theory, but the masturbatory experience was significantly enhanced by having you present  _in vivo_  in comparison to just thinking about you. In retrospect, the sensory limitations of imagination are considerably greater than I had realized, although now with actual data I suppose using recollections in lieu of imagined experiences might..."

John felt slow and dull as Sherlock's words belatedly penetrated his post-orgasmic haze.

"Wait... _what_  did you say?" He pushed himself up on one elbow, his mouth no doubt gaping. "Do you mean...were you just saying you think of  _me_  when you...touch yourself?"

"Well, of course, John. Who else?"

"But...wha —...since  _when_?"

"Hard to say for certain as it intensified over time, but I suspect it first began when you shot a cabbie for me."

As John continued no doubt to gape at him, Sherlock's brows knitted together, caution entering his pale eyes. He drew up on his elbow as well, his eyes narrowing as he searched John's face. "Not good?"


	16. The Talk

John felt slow and dull as Sherlock's words belatedly penetrated his post-orgasmic haze.

"Wait... _what_  did you say?" He pushed himself up on one elbow, his mouth no doubt gaping. "Do you mean...were you just saying you think of — of  _me_ when you...touch yourself?"

"Well, of course, John. Who else?"

"But...wha —...since  _when_?"

"Hard to say for certain as it intensified over time, but I suspect it first began when you shot a cabbie for me."

As John continued no doubt to gape at him, Sherlock's brows knitted together, caution entering his pale eyes. He drew up on his elbow as well, his eyes narrowing as he searched John's face. "Not good?"

John felt his mind spinning. "No," he said, and then his heart lurched as Sherlock's expression grew shuttered. "I mean, it's good," he rushed to clarify. "It's — it's a little... _overwhelmingly_  good."

"Oh," Sherlock said, his face easing as he lay back down. "That's all right, then."

John flopped down on his back as well. "Yes. Yes, it is."

"You're saying everything twice," Sherlock observed wryly.

John chuckled weakly. "I'm...a bit surprised, I suppose." He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Are you saying that — that you've wanted... _this_...pretty much since we met?"

Sherlock tented his fingertips together, slanting John an ironic glance. "What I  _said_ , John, was that you have been my primary masturbatory fantasy since we met. It's quite a presumptuous leap to conclude from that information that I desired a  _relationship_."

"Oh," John said. "Right," he nodded. Then he stared up at the ceiling, blinking a few times. "No," he said, more firmly. "Actually, I don't understand in the least."

He sat up. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak and John held a hand up. "Hold on. I have a feeling this might be a long conversation, and I'm a little...sticky...for that right now."

He moved to the en suite, shedding his trousers and pants as he went. Once there he wet two flannels with warm water, throwing one to Sherlock. Sherlock caught it neatly out of the air without even looking. "Show off," John grumbled, rolling his eyes.

John shut the bathroom door, performing his own ablutions, taking a moment to try to collect his racing thoughts. Hard as he tried, he couldn't quite wrap his mind around it. Sherlock had desired  _him_ , of all people? For all this time — almost since the day they met? Why had he never said anything, or given even the least sign of it?

Finally, he decided there was no point fretting about it in the loo when the man himself could answer some direct questions. He emerged and, after a moment's hesitation, dressed in pajama bottoms and a vest instead of the t-shirt he had been wearing since Sherlock's arrival. Ridiculous to be self-conscious about his scar now, even though his cheeks heated slightly against his will.

Sherlock looked like he hadn't stirred an inch, lying on his back with his hands still steepled, but he was wearing new pajama bottoms as well. The long, pale expanse of his chest glistened slightly with a sheen of massage oil, and John shivered a bit with both new and remembered arousal just to see it.

He went around to what had become his side of the bed, lying carefully down so he was next to Sherlock, just brushing his side but not pressed up against him. He needed to keep a clear head.

"So," he said finally, trying to choose his words carefully. "What you're saying is that you have been...attracted...to me since I shot Hope?"

Sherlock sighed gustily. "Are we  _really_  going to revisit every moment of our acquaintance, John? Because that sounds remarkably tedious."

The rush of annoyance managed to clear John's head considerably. He tamped down on his temper, keeping his voice calm and firm. "We don't have to rehash everything, Sherlock, but yes, this does need some discussion. Because, honestly, I don't have the slightest idea what is going on right now." He turned toward Sherlock, reaching out to hold one thin wrist, rubbing his thumb up and down soothingly over the pulse point. "We need to understand each other," he said more gently.

Some of the petulance faded from Sherlock's expression. He turned toward John as well, and then nodded.

"Right, then," John said. "So. You were attracted to me from the start..."

"From when you shot the cabbie," Sherlock corrected. "Before that you were interesting, but that night — you killed a man, John, killed him for  _me_ , and then...you made me  _laugh_." Somehow Sherlock's tone made both events sound equally surprising, as if making him laugh were on par with manslaughter. "You were... _fascinating,_ " Sherlock added, his eyes suddenly lit from within with blue-green warmth.

"Oh." John felt himself blinking again, taking all that in, his heart pounding. "So you...thought about me. But..." he hazarded, "You...didn't want to act on it?"

Sherlock shrugged moodily, looking somewhat evasive. "What changed your mind?" John asked, suddenly desperate to know that above all other things.

Sherlock flounced over onto his back, gazing at the ceiling again. "I didn't change my mind," he said, apparently addressing his remarks haughtily to the crack in the plaster. "You changed  _yours_."

"I..."

"You asked me into your bed," Sherlock accused, his voice edgy and aggressive now. "You called me —" He stopped abruptly, pulling his arm free of John's hand. His voice was cold when he began again, but John could hear the tremor underneath. "You — you were drunk. I was...mistaken."

Oh, bloody  _fuck_. It took a moment, but John filled in the unspoken end of his sentence. "I called you  _love_. I didn't think you heard that. You...you never said." He threw his forearm over his eyes, feeling the world spin around him again. He should be panicking, he supposed, and he was, but he also felt suddenly...free. He had been trying so hard to hide this, and he needn't have even bothered. Sherlock had known from the moment he returned.

"As I said...I was mistaken." When John snapped his eyes open Sherlock's face was cold and set, and it was breaking John's heart just to look at it.

"No." John reached out, tangling his hand in Sherlock's hair, tugging urgently to bring his face to his. "You most certainly were  _not_  mistaken." He took a deep breath, feeling like he was jumping off a cliff. "I did, I called you  _love_ , because...because I love you. I'm not sure when it happened exactly, probably ages before I figured it out, but I finally realized it just before...before you fell. And then I lost you, and I've been lost without you, and then you came back, and I've been trying to hide it from you, but that was stupid, yeah? Because you can't hide anything from Sherlock bloody Holmes and you've known all along, haven't you?"

Sherlock was gazing at him now, openly curious. "Why would you be trying to hide that?"

"I..." John shrugged. "I thought you wouldn't like it.  _Sentiment_ , you know. I thought...you'd feel embarrassed for me, that I loved you when you didn't feel the same way about me, and it would be awkward, and you were trapped here until we find Moran, and —"

"But of course I feel the same," Sherlock interrupted, his brows raised, his voice sharp. " _Obviously_."

"What?" John's heart was thundering, his head buzzing. He swallowed, his throat suddenly impossibly dry. "Sherlock, if you are taking the piss right now I swear..."

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock snapped. "Why else would I..." He waved his hand in an all-encompassing gesture of frustration.  _"All of this."_

John stared at him in shock, desperately scanning his face for some kind of sign that this was a joke, or a sham, or an experiment —  _something_. Sherlock looked steadily back at him.

"You can't," he found himself saying weakly.

The lines of Sherlock's face suddenly sharpened, making him look cold and yet somehow incredibly fragile. "You think me...incapable of such emotion?" he said, each word like a shard of glass.

"What?" John's heart lurched again. "No, _god no_ , Sherlock." He reeled Sherlock in, pressing their foreheads together, embarrassed by the dampness in the corner of his eyes. "Jesus, that's not what I meant. Just that..."

He took a deep breath, letting it out with a shudder. "I mean just look at you, you're brilliant and posh and dead gorgeous, and what am  _I?_  It just doesn't make sense, not like it would with — " God, it hurt to say it, it hurt just to  _think_  it, but he couldn't hold the truth inside anymore. " — Irene, or someone like that. Someone always three steps ahead, someone people would do anything to touch."

He kept his eyes shut tight even as he felt Sherlock's right arm wind around him, the long fingers of Sherlock's left hand coming up to brush gently down his cheek.

"Insecurity," Sherlock rumbled with an air of discovery. "Unexpected and...erroneous."

Feeling like a coward, John ducked his face into the crook of Sherlock's neck. That one word for all the complex emotions he had been feeling, _insecurity_ , and he felt like a spotty thirteen-year-old girl. "Just...never mind," he groaned into the skin of Sherlock's neck.

"No." Sherlock drew back, his eyes serious. "You said we have to understand each other, and you were correct. I had not realized..." He trailed off, closing his eyes tight and then opening them again, his gaze boring into John's. "You said to look at me. So, let us look at me. I am a former junkie, by every accounting an arrogant, insufferable individual, with a callousness bordering on sociopathy, black moods that render me incapable of logical thought, and not a friend in the world but for you."

John opened his mouth to protest and found Sherlock's fingers pressing firmly against his lips, holding him mute. "Now let's look at you." Sherlock's eyes were silver fire, razing over John's face, burning his doubts and apprehensions to the ground. "Look at the doctor, quick and decisive. Look at the captain, steady and courageous. Look at the friend, the partner — loyal and strong and endlessly patient." John had never heard such fervency, such sincerity and emotion, in the voice of Sherlock Holmes. "I don't want someone three steps ahead, John, I want someone right at my side, just as you are, always. And I would, I  _did_ , do anything to return to you, to have the chance to be able to touch you, even though I was certain that you would never welcome it." Sherlock's arm around John's waist was gripping him so tight it was hurting, the long fingers pressed against John's lips chilled and trembling. "So look at you, John. You are...everything to me. Everything worth having." He pressed his forehead into John's temple, his breath hot against his cheek. "My John," he breathed.

John didn't know which of them moved first but suddenly they were kissing — frantically, desperately. Sherlock's mouth was soft and hot and wet and John devoured it, feeling Sherlock open and yield to him. He poured his feelings into the pressure of tongues and the gentle scrape of teeth — relief and tenderness and giddy, unbelievable joy. They kissed until they were breathless and gasping, clinging together tightly as if the other might be suddenly wrenched away at any moment. Finally John pulled back, pressing his face into Sherlock's neck, breathing him in as he giggled helplessly.

"Sherlock Holmes. You're a bloody  _romantic_."

He could feel the lips pressed against his temple smile. "If you breathe a word of it to Mycroft I'll murder you in your sleep."

John shook his head, finally sobering. "We wasted so much bloody time," he finally said.

"Well,  _I_  am not the one who both frequently and vociferously proclaimed himself to be 'not gay'," Sherlock said, the edge back in his voice.

"Hey," John said, sensing the vulnerability behind the anger and nuzzling even closer. "You know I wasn't trying to hurt you, right? I thought — you know, that sex was not your area, married to your work and all that, and it would make you uncomfortable if people were always making insinuations. And as for me, I really didn't know. I mean, I  _still_  don't know, honestly. I suppose I'm bisexual by definition now, but, as far as I can tell it's...women, and then you. Just you."

He felt Sherlock's body ease against him. Finally he nodded. "It was unexpected on all counts, I suppose. That we would be each other's exceptions," Sherlock said, a smile back in his voice.

John smiled in return against the skin of Sherlock's neck, feeling himself start to drift a little. Between the sex and the emotional conversation he was as knackered as he had ever been in his life, his head empty and floating with relief and happiness. "Lucky, that."

He felt a hand in his hair as Sherlock curled his long body around him. "Indeed."


	17. The Discovery

John slowly surfaced toward waking, feeling warm and content.  _Sherlock_ , he thought, smiling to himself.  _Sherlock loves me._

He opened his eyes and had to stifle a yip of surprise. The man himself was inches away, crouched over John on his hands and knees, gray eyes staring intently.

"Ah, good, you're finally awake," Sherlock announced. "I have decided which sexual activity I would like to engage in next."

John tried to smother his laughter. "And good morning to you too," he murmured with amusement.

"Social niceties," Sherlock said dismissively. "Now lay still, I wish to examine you."

John shut his eyes, gathering strength. This all seemed like a bit much for first thing in the morning before he had even had his cuppa. "Is this some kind of...medical kink you have or something?" he asked, prying one eye open.

He saw Sherlock's brows furrow briefly, and could almost see him adding the term to his mental list of things to Google later.

"For some unknown reason you still view me as being somewhat vulnerable sexually," Sherlock began, laying his case out like a barrister. "Out of misplaced chivalry you want to do things with me that have not been tainted by my experiences with Seb. I had no interest in doing this with Seb, and if I had expressed such interest he would not have tolerated it in any case. It allows me a measure of control while still being a novel experience, thus satisfying all of your criteria, and it is also something I avidly wish to do. Shall we proceed?"

John took a moment to wrap his head around all that. "Give me a bit of a snog first, and try me again," he finally concluded. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, pulling him down a bit until he was sprawled over John's body, both of them sighing as their hips met.

John wound a hand in Sherlock's curls, drawing him slowly down. He lazily explored Sherlock's mouth, licking and nibbling, tracing that decadent cupid's bow with his tongue before suckling that full lower lip. The kiss was soft, and sweet, and tender, intensified somehow now that their feelings for each other were out in the open for the first time.

He hummed his contentment as Sherlock reciprocated, gently stroking John's tongue with his own. John smoothed his hands down the sun-warmed expanse of Sherlock's bare back before grasping a handful of surprisingly lush pajama-clad arse. How a twiggy bloke like Sherlock got a plush arse like that was beyond John, but he wasn't complaining as he tightened his grip and pushed up into Sherlock, grinding their bodies together deliciously.

Sherlock broke the kiss on a sharp inhale, raising his head and narrowing his eyes suspiciously. "You're trying to distract me," he accused.

"Mmmm...is it working?" John felt happy and lazy, and (although he'd never admit it) amiably predisposed to give Sherlock anything he damn well asked for.

"No. I still want you naked."

That sounded promising. "What exactly do you have planned, again?" John asked mildly, already pulling off his vest.

"I want to look at you. Learn you. Everything about you." God, the force of that gaze was an aphrodisiac in itself. How many times had John wondered what it would be like to be the object of that razor-sharp scrutiny?

"Hmmm. So I just lie here? I'm surprised you didn't do this already as I was sleeping." Sherlock was already tugging impatiently at John's pajama bottoms and John lifted his hips, allowing him to pull them free.

"I thought that would be more efficient as well," Sherlock said seriously. "But I suspected that I should first obtain your assent. Plus, I will likely touch you, and you are irritable when woken prematurely."

"Well-reasoned," John said, stretching out on the sheets before relaxing back with his arms at his sides. "Do your worst, then, you ridiculous nutter," he said fondly.

He didn't know what he was expecting, but before the words were even out of his mouth Sherlock was crouching over him again, intent. He started at the top of John's head, fingertips moving gently in John's hair, feeling the bones of the underlying skull. It was quite soothing actually, and John closed his eyes again, relaxing into the touch.

Next came gentle tugs as Sherlock apparently tested the resilience of different parts of his hair, before moving on to his face. Sherlock's fingertips traced the ridges of his forehead, ruffled through his eyebrows, even brushed gently along the curl of his eyelashes. Strong thumbs smoothed over his lips and up the line of his cheekbones before gentle fingertips returned to test the texture of the skin of his eyelids, sliding down to abrade his stubble in both directions. It reminded John of a video he had seen, in which a visually impaired woman had learned the faces of those she met through touch. As he had declared before beginning, Sherlock was truly learning him, memorizing him. It made John feel oddly...cherished.

The touch of Sherlock's lips to the corner of his mouth made him jump, rousing him from the sensual haze he had fallen into. He opened his eyes and, god, that bright gaze was still on him, stripping him bare. Half-expecting a snog, he was a bit surprised when Sherlock kissed his temple next, tongue flicking out for a quick lick along his hairline. Then a press of Sherlock's lips to the pulse point in his neck, and another small flicker of tongue. Ah, tasting then. John shifted a little, his arousal growing at the thought of where that might lead.

Sherlock lingered at the crook of John's neck, breathing in with long inhales and out in short puffs.  _Of course_ , John thought.  _Sniffing_.

"So go on, what do I smell like, then," he asked lazily.

"Mmmm..." The hum into his neck tickled deliciously. "A little spicy, a little salty. Like John. And sex. And..." another delicate sniff "...a little like marzipan."

John chuckled. "That would be the almond oil, I expect."

"Mmmm," Sherlock hummed again, this time into the crest of John's good shoulder. "If I get an erection next time I'm in a sweet shop, you will be to blame."

John laughed outright at that. "Like _you'd_ ever visit a sweet shop," he teased.

"For a case, naturally."

It felt so fun and easy, this banter between them. Some tension John hadn't even realized had existed was now missing, and it felt amazing. John didn't have to worry about hiding his feelings from Sherlock. This wasn't just some diversion on Sherlock's part, something he would bore of easily before moving on to the next distraction.  _It could be like this_ , John thought,  _for the rest of our lives_ , and the idea of it made him giddy. He wasn't naive, Sherlock was still likely to behave like an enormous prat at times. It wouldn't be easy, but they could have all of this — sex and laughter, affection and cases. It would be  _brilliant_.

So caught up in his blissful thoughts, John didn't even flinch as Sherlock moved his intense focus to his scarred shoulder. He spent even longer than the night before examining it with his eyes, and then touching it gently with his fingertips. Finally, he even tested the texture of the scarred skin with his tongue, lapping gently at the ridges and whorls of scar tissue, making John shiver a bit.

"Go on then," John murmured when Sherlock finally drew back. "I know you're dying to show off."

Sherlock's eyes flicked to John's, testing his sincerity, before the corner of his mouth curled with a hint of smugness.

"Shot with a sniper rifle at relatively close range, through a 'murder hole' then, not fire from a distance. Not a foreign mercenary — a Chechen or Iraqi sniper veteran — but a poorly-trained local, most likely armed with a scoped Russian SVD. You were in body armor and helmet, but that couldn't protect you entirely at such close range. From the angle of the wound you were kneeling, administering aid to the sniper's earlier victim, but you were also in motion, the arm extended and shoulder blade raised, so you were reaching or pulling — pulling your medkit closer with your dominant hand or dragging the victim to safety. Either way you were square to the sniper, deliberately shielding the fallen soldier with your body. Infection set in, likely due to delayed extraction in the field and the time in flight between Patrol Base Shahzad and Camp Bastion. Between twenty-five and thirty stitches in the front initially, and then two subsequent surgeries for debridement and drainage."

John's pleasant haze had dissipated a bit with Sherlock's deductions. It was a bit uncomfortable, hearing the grit and blood and sand and pain of that life-changing event laid naked to the bone, dissected in that smooth, detached voice. And then Sherlock's eyes flicked upward again, looking to John — not for confirmation, but for approval — and warmth spread through John's chest. "Amazing," he said sincerely.

Sherlock looked pleased and started to move down along John's ribs.

"But..." John continued, "...you forgot something."

Sherlock froze, his attention sharpening. "There's always something," he muttered to himself. His fingertips traced upwards, skimming the scar again. After a few moments he made a disgruntled noise. "What is it — what did I overlook?" he asked John.

John smiled at him. " _Think_ , love. The most important thing."

He saw the change come over Sherlock's face, the sharp clinical focus softening, his eyes warming. "Oh." The dark lashes came down to shadow those silver eyes, and then Sherlock leaned down, placing a gentle kiss on the blossom of John's scar. "It brought you to me."

John stroked his fingers through the dark curls. "Knew you'd get it in the end," he said fondly.

Sherlock raised his head, suddenly looking uncertain as his fingertips continued to trace the scar absent-mindedly. "John, you know that I would never wish you pain — and your career as a surgeon..."

John laid his hand over Sherlock's, stilling the restless fingers. "Don't worry. You don't have to feel guilty. I'm glad it happened too."

"How can you be?"

John laced their fingers together and squeezed. "Because I gained so much more than I lost."

A rare, true smile spread over Sherlock's face like sun shining through clouds, lighting his eyes green from within. John wondered if he was the only person to see Sherlock like this, looking young and happy and unguarded. It seemed like an incredible privilege, that this brilliant, prickly man would show this side of himself to John, and only to John.

Sherlock continued down John's torso, carefully skirting his groin, apparently assessing and categorizing muscle tone, skin elasticity, the taste and smell of every inch. He even put his ear against John's chest, listening to his heartbeat, his breathing, his abdominal sounds. He deduced every scar — falls from his bicycle as a child, rugby injuries, that slip of the scalpel into his right thumb while training, random nicks and scrapes received on cases.

"Turn," he said imperiously, after a thorough examination of John's toes. John turned over, easing himself down on his belly. This felt a little different. He couldn't watch Sherlock like this, couldn't predict his touch. He felt more self-conscious and exposed, and yet somehow that made his arousal burn even hotter.

"Christ," he muttered into the pillow, unable to keep himself from rutting into the mattress a few times as Sherlock's fingers traced their way back up his body, from calves to buttocks to lower back, up the ridges of his spine and across his shoulders, lingering on the scarred surface of the entry wound. By the time Sherlock inhaled and tasted the nape of John's neck, John was in a muddled welter of insecurity and arousal.

"I can't imagine there's that much worth seeing," he mumbled into the pillow.

He felt Sherlock's hand still, tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck.

"John," Sherlock said softly. "As always, you  _see_ , but you do not  _observe_. That face you show to the world, that unassuming demeanor — jam and jumpers and an approachable everyman — you can't honestly believe that's what  _I_  see, can you?"

John felt a strange tension curling in his chest. "What do you see, then?"

Sherlock's voice was a gentle rebuke. "I see  _you_ , John.  _All_  of you. Strength and sheer force of will barely contained in this incredible, compact body." Deft fingertips skated down John's spine, making him shudder. "The way you move when you are on the chase — quick and sharp and deadly. The spark that lights your eyes when the situation is grim, the way your breath stays steady and calm in the silence between gunshots." John could feel Sherlock's heat all along his back now as Sherlock's hands smoothed back up his spine to his shoulders. Sherlock leaned in, breathing the next words into John's ear. "Those idiots in your day-to-day life — they think you are a kitten, cuddly and sweet. They are so  _blind_." John could feel Sherlock's words sliding in under his skin, speaking directly to his soul, making his heart pound and his breath hitch. "You are a leopard. Tawny and fierce and _so very beautiful._  My predator and my protector.  _That's_ what I see."

John didn't even remember moving but suddenly Sherlock was crushed beneath him. For an instant he saw Sherlock's mouth caught open on a gasp, eyes blown wide with both surprise and arousal, and then John was devouring his mouth desperately, voraciously, as if he needed the very breath from Sherlock's lungs to survive. John could feel the gnashing of their teeth as he smashed his mouth against Sherlock's, could taste the tang of copper passed from Sherlock's eager tongue to his, and knew he needed to calm, to settle, to get back some of that measure of control he'd been ruthlessly employing since this thing between them had started. But Sherlock was pushing his hips up into him at the same time his grasping hands were pulling John closer; he was practically sobbing choked, eager little noises into John's mouth, and John felt his control slipping even further from his grasp.

He felt every bit as wild and lethal as Sherlock had described, his whole mind focused with deadly intent on one objective — making sure that the brilliant, incredible man beneath him felt every iota of what John was feeling right now: incandescent joy, fierce possession, and love so bright and strong that it could burn them both to ashes and they would revel in the flames.

John held Sherlock's head still with both hands wound in his hair, distantly feeling Sherlock's hands clutching at him mindlessly as he possessed that devastating mouth. Finally he tore his mouth free with a shuddering gasp, pulling air into his lungs before attacking the pale expanse of that neck, sucking and biting, feeling Sherlock's pulse fluttering beneath his tongue.

He could feel Sherlock pushing his hips up frantically, seekingly, the rhythm too erratic to satisfy. He moved one hand to grasp his sharp-boned hip firmly, pinning him with the weight of his body. "Stay," he growled, his voice barely recognizable, and he could feel the impact of it shudder through Sherlock, the body beneath him stilling in both shock and instinctive surrender.

He fumbled for the bottle of oil at the bedside table, spilling it carelessly into his hands. He yanked Sherlock's pajama bottoms down just enough to free his cock before ruthlessly slicking him base to tip.

"John!" Sherlock arched into John's touch, and John could feel his whole body shaking with the force of his emotion. God, could there be anything sweeter than hearing his name ripped from that beautiful mouth, feeling that lithe slender body taut and trembling between his hands? On some level John wanted to slow down, to savor this first touch — but a larger part of him was pushed past all reason. Sherlock was coming to pieces beneath his hands,  _because of him_ , and it was incredible.

He stroked Sherlock quickly, mercilessly, and then crowded closer, taking them both in hand. He hissed with the feel of it, the smooth slow glide of their hard flesh together sending waves of pleasure down his spine. Sherlock's silver eyes were locked on his, wide and amazed.

"That's it," John found himself panting. "Feel it, Sherlock. Feel what I do to you." He braced his right arm and ground against Sherlock, his oiled hand stroking them both quick and hard. He felt a feral grin cross his face. "So fucking gorgeous," he gritted out through bared teeth. "Fucking  _mine_."

Sherlock had been panting with every movement of John's fist, a steady whimper of "JohnJohnJohn _John_ " falling from his lips. He was so close, so beautifully close, right there on the very edge, and John wanted to do nothing more than push him over into shattering.

John wrapped his other arm around Sherlock and with a heave of effort flipped them, landing on his back with Sherlock sprawled between his legs, his left hand resuming the rhythm, fisting both their cocks. Sherlock had braced his hands on the bed on either side of John's shoulders and was looking down their bodies now, watching John's hand move with fascination.

No longer needing to brace himself upright, John trailed his free hand down to the cleft of Sherlock's arse. "Sherlock," John gritted out, making those mercurial eyes snap up to his. "Come for me, love," he said, as he pressed one strong finger between, and against, and then suddenly  _inside_ , twisting, seeking, and then with his unerring surgeon's touch,  _finding_.

He watched Sherlock's face greedily, and it was everything John had imagined — surprise and realization and then ecstasy stuttering across Sherlock's expression with startling rapidity. It was the face of an epiphany — those unearthly eyes wide and unseeing, that perfect mouth forming a soundless  _oh_ of discovery, and then Sherlock was spilling into John's hand, crying out John's name as his orgasm shook him.

"Fuck," John said. " _Fuck_ ," and then he let himself go as well, letting the pleasure roll through him, doggedly stroking them both through the waves and the aftershocks until they collapsed in a sticky, sweaty heap. John's head was buzzing, dazed, and so it took a few more moments to realize that Sherlock was shaking, shuddering in his arms.

"Oh Christ," John said, easing his finger out of Sherlock's body as gently as he could, craning his neck to try to see Sherlock's face where it was buried in the crook of his shoulder. He felt ice spreading through his chest. "Sherlock, oh  _fuck_ , I'm sorry, did I..."

Sherlock raised his head and John was suddenly giddy with relief. He was  _giggling_ , the crazy bastard, silently shaking with laughter, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. He flopped down on his back next to John, chuckling aloud now.

"You bloody  _berk_ ," John said feelingly. "I thought that it was too much, that I was too rough..."

Sherlock snorted, the sound marvelously out of keeping with the goofy grin that was plastered across his face. "It was  _brilliant_ ," he said, still catching his breath. "I'm just glad that I hit upon a solution to overcome that misplaced chivalry of yours."

Then John was giggling too, helplessly, until his stomach hurt. He finally subsided, his body curled up against Sherlock's, his forehead brushing Sherlock's temple, his knees brushing Sherlock's flank. "Another puzzle solved by the great Sherlock Holmes, eh? Compare John Watson to a jungle cat and he'll lose all compunction and shag you as rough as you like."

"Mmmm," Sherlock hummed happily. He turned his head to look at John, those grey eyes suddenly serious. "I did... _like_ , you realize. I'm not going to break, John."

Something about those words and it was just a flash; Sherlock's head on the pavement, blood spreading through the curls, those same grey eyes wide and staring. John felt his breath hitch and he blinked furiously, refusing to let the image take him from this moment. Still, his voice was rough as he spoke. "I'm not going to stop trying to take care of you, Sherlock. It's — I can't."

Sherlock nodded carefully, acknowledging it. "Still," he said, his tone carefully light again, his mouth curving into that charming half-smile of his. "I have an extensive knowledge of the genus  _Panthera_  to call upon, as the occasion arises."

John chuckled. "And exactly why do you know that? No wait, let me guess — some poor sod somewhere was killed by an ocelot."

"Don't be ridiculous, John." Sherlock paused meditatively. "It was a Balinese tiger. An ocelot is from genus  _Leopardus_."


	18. The Siblings

"Sherlock, if you're trying to seduce me, bringing up Mycroft is entirely the wrong tactic," John mumbled sleepily.

He had gone to sleep alone hours ago and woken up to find Sherlock wrapped around him like an overly-affectionate octopus, blathering on about something. Apparently he had been talking for some time, although John had woken fully only in time to catch a mention of Mycroft's name. Much like his physical presence, apparently John's consciousness was no requirement when Sherlock was bent on conversation.

He opened bleary eyes to see that Sherlock seemed torn between sulking and laughing, finally settling on a dry twist of his mouth. "I would certainly hope so," he answered snappishly. "I'm just clarifying the issue. I am safe. You are safe. There is no need to raise suspicion or alarm by purchasing or pilfering from the surgery...supplies...when we can make do quite adequately with what we have."

Sherlock slanted a keen gaze in John's direction before his face turned carefully blank, his voice taking on a detached tone as he pulled away to lie next to John, staring at the ceiling. "That is assuming that a doctorly punctiliousness is in fact behind your avoidance of certain sexual activities rather than some threshold of attraction beyond which you find my gender to be an insurmountable impediment."

John yawned, and then threw a heavy arm around Sherlock, hauling him in close again. "You're a wordy ponce when you're insecure," he muttered into the slightly damp skin of Sherlock's neck. "Are you asking if we haven't shagged yet because you have a dick? Because I thought you might have deduced from what's happened so far that I've actually become quite a fan — ow! Unnecessary!" The sharp elbow to his ribs had pulled him out of his drowsy, comfortable haze.

"I am just making it clear that you have no need to worry about our respective statuses," Sherlock continued haughtily.

John rubbed his ribs with disgruntlement. "And Mycroft enters into it how?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "As I said, I have to be tested quarterly as a condition of my trust. Mycroft put the condition in place when I had...substance issues...and has been inflexible on the matter. And your blood was drawn the day I...left..."

"Hold on — I don't even remember that." John was sitting up now. "Are you telling me that with your body apparently dead on the pavement, Mycroft was secretly having me tested for STIs?"

Sherlock seemed deflated now, all his haughtiness gone. His eyes ducked away from John's sheepishly. "It was in the records on the hard drive. Mycroft was suspicious of the bicyclist knocking you down, and he thought you seemed...not yourself. He had a full panel run for toxins, metabolites...the STI testing was incidental."

John blew a harsh breath out between his teeth, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Bloody hell.  _Naturally_. Rather than concluding that I was, in fact, acting strangely because I was in shock and  _grieving the loss of my best friend_ , Mycroft's logical reaction was to sneak my blood and test it for fucking cobra venom, no doubt. Just great." He shook his head. "You Holmes brothers and your..."

"...cold-bloodedness?" Sherlock finished his sentence.

"What?" John looked at Sherlock in surprise. He was still avoiding John's eyes, staring fixedly at the ceiling now. "No, I was going to say 'You Holmes brothers and your devious minds.'" He lay down again, his anger fading. He turned toward Sherlock, placing a hand on his chest. "The very last thing I would describe you as is cold-blooded."

The muscles of Sherlock's chest were tense beneath John's hand, his breathing a touch too rapid, even though his face stayed carefully blank. "It should come as no surprise to you by now, John, that we Holmeses do not...feel emotion in the way others do." The pale gray eyes raked over John's face. "I don't know how you do it."

"Do what?"

Sherlock shrugged, but his hand had unconsciously drifted to John's hip, gripping almost painfully, as if to keep him from moving away. "The things you say to me. So easily." A tint of pink started to color those high cheekbones. "How you call me — call me 'love,' and — and 'beautiful'. I thought people only said things like that so casually if they didn't mean them, but...you mean them."

John leaned in for a kiss. "I do."

Their lips met, briefly, clingingly, but then Sherlock was pulling back, his brow still furrowed. There was something he was trying to convey that John was obviously missing.

"I don't...I don't know how to do that. I don't think I can. If that is something you need..."

"Sherlock." John snuggled in closer, the wave of tenderness almost overwhelming him. "I don't need declarations of love, or grand romantic gestures. Christ, I wouldn't know what to do with those things. You've already told me how you feel about me, more than I ever hoped to hear. Even if you never say the words, I'll still know it." He smiled. "You wooed me with crime scenes. Nothing about us is typical and that's the way I like it. It's...all fine."

He felt Sherlock relax against his body. "In any case, if you think you Holmeses are cold-blooded, you're an even bigger idiot than I thought," John added.

Sherlock brushed a hand through John's hair. "It's true, though. Emotion is — not our area. Caring is not an advantage." He said the last line as if he were quoting someone.

"Bollocks. Who says?"

Sherlock made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Mycroft said that to me once. 'All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.'"

John couldn't help it. It started with a giggle, and then before he could stop himself he was laughing uncontrollably. He finally subsided, wiping his eyes, still chuckling from time to time. Sherlock was looking at him in adorable befuddlement. "I fail to see the joke, John," he said frostily.

"I know you do." John pulled him closer, kissing him slow and soft, finally breaking off when they were both breathing hard. He settled Sherlock comfortably against his good shoulder, marshalling his thoughts.

"In addition to being probably the most melodramatic statement I have ever heard, that is complete and total  _shite_ , and Mycroft knows it." He had a feeling when Mycroft might have said something like that, damn Irene Adler to hell. Another memory followed, Mycroft standing in the rain outside Speedy's, uncharacteristically smoking a cigarette, his face drawn and pale with worry for Sherlock. "Mycroft said something to me too." John could feel Sherlock's whole body tense with the need to know and smiled internally, knowing that he would never ask. "He said that you had the brain of a philosopher or a scientist, but chose to be a detective. He asked me to deduce what that meant about your heart."

Sherlock snorted, but John felt him relax again. Sherlock would never admit how much Mycroft's opinion meant to him. "Mycroft's the same," John continued.

"Mycroft and I are  _not_  the same," Sherlock protested reflexively.

"A brain like that? He could probably make a billion in the markets quicker than he can open his umbrella. He could be Prime Minister — hell, he could  _own_  a country somewhere, ruling from the mountaintop. But he didn't choose finance, or even politics, really. Instead he chose a 'minor position in the government.'"

"As you said, our minds are devious. He likes the intrigue," Sherlock argued, but John could hear the shade of uncertainty in his tone.

"Because there's no intrigue and deviousness in corporate finance or politics?" John said gently. "He takes care of everybody, Sherlock. Of the  _nation_. Watches over England, probably as relentlessly as he mother-hens you. At least one can hope so."

John felt the sleepiness starting to creep over him again. He could practically hear Sherlock's mind whirring, thinking over what he had said, and he let his own thoughts drift a little. Wondering what life had been like growing up in the Holmes household, thinking back to what life had been like in the Watson household. It was so easy, in retrospect, to let the bad times at the end color his recollections. He'd almost forgotten until now the easy affection — how his mum would give him a hug or call him her handsome boy in passing, how he would lie in his bed hearing his mum and dad laughing together in the other room. Even how he and Harry would protect each other after his mum's death when his dad's drinking first got out of hand. Until Harry had become every bit as angry, and bitter, and uncontrollable as his dad, and John had simply escaped.

"Everybody thinks I'm easygoing," John suddenly murmured. "But they're wrong. My mum, she was the easygoing one." He sighed. "Like it or not, I have my dad's temper. Harry too. That's why Clara left. Harry's given up on controlling it, but I..."

He stopped, trying to find a way to put it into words. "More than anything, I wanted to not be like that. So I push my temper down, deep, and act like it isn't there. It makes it seem like nothing bothers me, but when it finally comes out it's...it's overwhelming." Even just thinking about it was making his heart speed up, his fists clench. "That night with Jefferson Hope...it came out like that then. My life had been so empty and pointless, and you had shown me how different it could be. You were brilliant, and amazing, and when I realized you were going to swallow that pill..."

Sherlock made a noise of distress and John buried his face in the top of Sherlock's head, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "All I could think of was —  _how dare he?_ How  _dare_  he try to take you from this world — try to take you from  _me_ , when I'd only just found you. And I shot. I shot to kill."

"John." John realized Sherlock was pulling at his hands, trying to unclench his fists. "He was a bad man, John."

John took another deep breath and tried to force his body to relax. "I know. I'm not sorry I did it. I would do it again, but...I wish it had been a conscious choice. Instead I just...acted. The anger took me, and that was it." John realized he had wandered somewhat severely from the point, and yet he was glad they had a chance to speak of this. It was part of him, and Sherlock needed to know. As much danger as they had been in at times, somehow Sherlock had never really seen John like that.

"What I'm trying to say is that I think I understand why you and Mycroft do what you do. Tell everyone — even yourselves — that you don't feel anything." He kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "You feel so much. So overwhelmingly much, and so you push it down deep, and try to pretend that it's not there. But it never goes away, does it? Not really."

Sherlock was quiet for a long time. So long that John found himself starting to drift asleep again. Finally, he felt Sherlock let out a long, shuddering breath against his neck. "It doesn't," he whispered. "Not with you."


	19. The Struggle

"You can't go," Sherlock barked. John leaned his head against the door, hissing in an angry breath. One hand still hovered over the deadbolt.

"You can't leave," Sherlock said icily. "It's almost midnight. It's a change in your routine."

"I know," John snapped. "I just...I just need to feel I can. So would you just... _shut it_  for a moment?"

He pressed his forehead into the rough wood of the door, trying to rein in his temper. He could feel the anger bubbling and hissing below the surface, looking for a way out. He wanted to lash out and hurt Sherlock the way that Sherlock had hurt him, and instead he clenched his fists and concentrated on his breathing. In through the nose, hold it, and then out through the mouth, slow and steady, like he did after the nightmares. Like he did in the moment before firing a bullet.

"You can't go. You said you loved me. That means you don't leave," Sherlock asserted, and  _Christ_ , in addition to the emotional development of a nine-year-old, did the man not even have the self-preservation of a mayfly?

"I do love you," John ground out between his clenched teeth, still doing his breathing. "It doesn't mean I like you very much right this moment."

He had thought he had seen Sherlock in black moods before — epic silent sulks on the sofa, grating violin compositions at all hours, even bullet holes in the walls. In retrospect, those seemed like minor snits in comparison to the dark and near-violent episodes Sherlock had displayed over the last few days as the remaining footage dwindled away with no results.

It was both infuriating and quite frankly alarming, how his moods vacillated so wildly. At times he would be open and tender, sharing stories of his life with John, murmuring endearments against his skin, falling apart gorgeously under his hands and mouth. And then only hours later his mind would turn in on itself, gnashing and gnawing, and that's when he turned on John. As if driven by demons, that brilliant mind and that beautiful mouth would say the things most calculated to hurt, to destroy this fragile relationship they had crafted, and trapped in this tiny flat John had no choice but to simply grit his teeth and suffer through it.

Finally feeling more in control of himself, John leaned back against the door, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I get it, Sherlock, I really do. You're trapped here. You're frustrated with not finding anything in the footage. But that is no excuse. The things that you say — you can't just cut me to ribbons because you're  _bored_."

"You understand  _nothing_!" Sherlock was practically shouting now, curled up into himself, sitting on the floor, head pressed against his knees, pulling fretfully at handfuls of his hair. "Your vapid little brain...how could you possibly understand what I'm trying to do? The unimaginable scope and complexity of Moriarty's web, down to one single thread on which both our lives hang, and  _I can't find it!_ "

He looked up at John — red-faced, pale marks on his brow where his knees had been pressed to his forehead, grey eyes stormy, hair sticking up in all directions. John felt something twist in his chest, his anger melting away. He could see in Sherlock's face that he knew he had crossed a line, and yet he was still out of control, unable to pull back.

With a sigh John walked over, leaning against the wall and then sinking down until he was sitting next to Sherlock. He didn't know if touching him would make it worse or not, but at least now he felt like he could be close without wanting to throttle the infuriating man to death.

Sherlock's head was against his knees again, and he was rocking slightly, his breathing jagged and uneven. John hovered a hand over his shoulder, and then drew it back.

"The footage is just one solution, Sherlock. If nothing is there, then we'll find another way. We always do."

Sherlock made a high whine of distress, shaking his head against his knees, still rocking. "This is the  _only_  way, John! This man has slipped my grasp time and again. A man without a face, who kills at a distance. I cannot protect you from that and time is running out, we can't keep up this act forever and soon he'll know that I live and then you'll die, I have to find it, I must, I must, but I can't  _think_ , I can't find it, it's there but  _I can't find it..._ "

"Christ, Sherlock." John gave in and put his arm around Sherlock but it was as if he didn't even notice, the babbling and rocking continuing unceasingly.

"Sherlock," John said more sternly. "Look at me."

He tightened the arm around Sherlock's shoulders, winding his other hand in the chaos of Sherlock's curls and forcing his head up. Sherlock was still lost in his head, mouth moving soundlessly now, eyes darting back and forth unseeingly. An icy shard of fear sliced through John just seeing him like this.

"Sherlock!" John said sharply, shaking him a bit. He saw Sherlock snap back into awareness. Then suddenly Sherlock was on him, practically crawling into his lap. John's hands tensed, poised to defend himself before he realized that Sherlock was kissing him desperately, his hands clutching and grasping wherever he could grab hold.

John's startled noise — of protest or encouragement, he didn't even know — was muffled by Sherlock's tongue. John held on, trying to kiss back, but Sherlock's agitation seemed only to increase. Licking turned to biting, Sherlock's hands scrabbling under John's shirt and jumper to scratch stingingly at his skin.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," John muttered. He tried to break away but Sherlock was was like a dervish, teeth and claws everywhere. "Just —  _stop it,_ " he barked, turning his head away, feeling Sherlock bite at the tendon between his neck and shoulder.

A brief tussle ensued, but at such close quarters Sherlock's martial arts techniques were no match for John's hand-to-hand combat training, low center of gravity, and sheer bloody-mindedness. It ended with Sherlock on his back, his fine-boned wrists grasped firmly above his head in John's left hand. John held Sherlock's shoulder pinned to the ground with his right forearm, straddling his hips to keep him firmly in place.

Sherlock bucked and heaved a few times, testing the strength of John's grip, as John grunted with the effort of holding him, panting into his neck. Then, suddenly, with a full-body shudder and a long exhale of "Joooohnnnn..." Sherlock went limp beneath him.

Sensing a trick, John pulled back cautiously, his eyes narrowed, but Sherlock truly seemed to have subsided. The tension had drained from his body, his head thrown back, neck bared in submission. John's concern warred with heated lust as he took in the view of Sherlock underneath him. He looked well-fucked already, his body stretched and pliant, lips kiss-swollen and thick curls in chaotic disarray, the hem of his t-shirt rucked up to show an expanse of pale belly above his pajama bottoms.

Sherlock's eyes blinked open slowly, as if he were waking from a dream. His eyes were dilated, the translucent gray almost entirely eclipsed by the dark pupils. " _Yes_ ," he breathed. The dazed eyes met John's as Sherlock's hips twisted beneath him in a slow, sinuous movement. " _This_  is what I need, John. How did you know?"

John's mouth went dry immediately, arousal roaring through his system. "Not a good idea, Sherlock," he gritted out.

Sherlock shook his head. His movements were slow and languid, as if he were moving through thick syrup. "The best idea," he murmured, his voice low and breathy, another slow full-body writhe sending his hips against John again demandingly.

"Goddammit." John rocked back, moving his forearm from where it pinned Sherlock's shoulder to brace his hand on the floor. John's mind might be suffering from emotional whiplash from Sherlock's sudden mood shifts, but his cock was entirely too enthusiastic about the current situation.

Sherlock began to move and John thought that he was freeing himself. His grip reflexively loosened but Sherlock merely twisted, turning over on his belly. He stretched sinuously again, wrists still compliantly in John's loosened grip, arching his back and pushing his arse back against the ridge of John's cock. "Please," he urged, his voice a full register lower than usual.

"Nnnghh, fucking Christ," John stuttered out as lust jolted through him. Grasping onto his slipping control John moved, shifting his knee to the small of Sherlock's back, trying to hold him still. "Not like this," he managed to say hoarsely. Despite all the things they had done over the last few weeks with hands and mouths, they had yet to do this, and John knew that Sherlock had never done anything like this with Seb either. "Not with you barely rational, and me — bloody hell, Sherlock, a part of me still wants to hurt you. Is that what you want from me?"

Sherlock shook his head frantically, his cheek pressed to the carpet, his mouth gasping open. "Not pain, John, just — just this. Make me stop thinking. Make me feel you instead." He was almost imperceptibly rocking, grinding himself against the floor as much as John's knee on his back allowed.

John let his head hang, still breathing hard, struggling with himself. His thoughts were a jumbled mess and his bad shoulder ached from where he still held Sherlock's wrists pinned above his head.

"Turn around," he finally said, his voice carefully sharp. He lifted his knee from Sherlock's lower back to straddle him again and watched as he turned over. The gray eyes seemed a little sharper now, although the expression on Sherlock's face was still dreamy, his cheeks flushed.

John cast his memory back to one of his least favorite courses at Bart's. "What do you get when you divide the molar mass of a monatomic element by Avogadro's number?"

Sherlock blinked, and then the corner of his mouth twitched in the barest smile. "The average mass of one atom of the element in grams," he replied steadily. "I am not compromised, John, emotionally or cognitively. Now come  _on_." He bucked his hips up into John again, the careful rationality of his words a striking contrast to the wanton movements of his lower body.

John watched Sherlock's face carefully, trying to ignore the incessant aching in his groin so he could think clearly. He brushed the knuckles of his right hand down Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock nuzzled up into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. He did seem calm now, as if focusing on John's touch had halted his frantic circling thoughts.

"This is really what you want, love?" John asked gently.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open again, his translucent gaze open and sincere. " _Yes_ ," he growled. "Please," he added, moving restlessly again, trying to push up against John.

John squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and then opened them again. "Right," he said decisively. "Get on the bed, then."


	20. The Need

"This is really what you want, love?" John asked gently.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open again, his translucent gaze open and sincere. " _Yes_ ," he growled. "Please," he added, moving restlessly again, trying to push up against John.

John squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and then opened them again. "Right," he said decisively. "Get on the bed, then." Sherlock shuddered, the last measure of tension seeming to leave him at John's words.

John shifted back, watching as Sherlock languidly rose to his feet. Sherlock pulled his t-shirt off, but when he reached for his pajama bottoms John stopped him.

"That's for me to do," he said firmly. "On the bed, on your back." He smiled inwardly at Sherlock's wide eyes. He had frozen in place, thumbs still hooked in the waistband of his pajama bottoms, looking a bit lost. "Up you go now," John said more gently.

Sherlock snapped back to attention and obeyed with alacrity, stretching out on the bed. He watched John intently, as if he were a puzzle that needed solving.

"Good," John said. He pulled off his own jumper and shirt, flinching a little as the fabric scraped over the scratches on his back. He'd have to disinfect those later, not to mention the bite on his neck.

"You marked me," he remarked almost idly as he toed off his shoes and pulled off his socks. He saw Sherlock's breath hitch, eyes scanning John's naked torso almost greedily as if searching for the evidence of his own transgressions. John grinned. "Can't say as I blame you. I've certainly marked you enough." He stripped off his jeans and sat on the bed in just his pants, running a thumb gently over the fading love-bites that smudged Sherlock's neck. He hadn't really been rough, but that creamy skin marked so easily.

"But you didn't mean to, did you?" he continued, his voice soft and understanding. "You were out of control. Too lost in your head, just looking for a way out."

"John, please..." Sherlock reached for him and John gathered his wrists up easily, stretching them above his head. Sherlock's gaze met his, a brief flare of surprise lighting those gray eyes before they turned wide and watchful again.

"I should have seen it sooner," John said gently. "You want someone to take you in hand, yeah?"

The flush rose higher on Sherlock's cheeks even as his gaze skittered away. Slowly, experimentally, John pushed down harder on Sherlock's wrists, pinning them more firmly to the bed. There was no disguising Sherlock's response as his eyes closed in bliss, a broken groan escaping his lips.

"Yeah," John said to him, as if he had answered. "That's what I thought." He leaned forward, brushing his lips gently up the blade of Sherlock's cheekbone. "If that's what you need, I can give you that," he whispered, quietly, confidently, into Sherlock's temple. He grazed his teeth down the shell of Sherlock's ear, feeling a tremble of response go through the lean body beneath him. A quick nip to Sherlock's tender earlobe, and then John pulled back.

"Look at me, love," he said, his voice uncompromising. He waited while Sherlock's eyes opened again, finding his. "Is that what you want? You have to tell me."

Outwardly John was confident but inwardly his heart was pounding, his mouth dry as he watched Sherlock seem to struggle with himself. Finally, as if delaying longer would risk changing his mind, Sherlock nodded quickly. Color reddened his cheeks, his lashes coming down to shade his eyes almost shyly.

John let out a long breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. Christ, he hadn't even realized how much he wanted this too. Sherlock was so unpredictable, such a force of nature. John wouldn't change that for anything, but to be able to do something like this for him, to be the one to bring him back when he tipped over the edge and lost control — that thought was achingly seductive. John wanted to be that for Sherlock — the calm eye in the storm of his mind, a tether to sanity when he was adrift in the roiling chaos of his own thoughts. He  _needed_  to be that for Sherlock.

"Good," he said huskily, the relief clear in his voice. "That's good." He leaned in further, placing a gentle kiss on Sherlock's lush mouth. "I will always give you what you need," he murmured against those soft lips, feeling the hitch and then sudden rush of Sherlock's warm breath.

When John first saw the miserable flat he had thought how ugly the metal bedframe was, like something that belonged in a prison cell. He would never have imagined how perfectly it was suited for this purpose, two of the metal bars in the headboard spaced ideally for the width of Sherlock's shoulders. He ran his hands up Sherlock's arms, tracing a deep circle in each palm with his thumbs, before guiding each of Sherlock's hands to a bar.

"Hold here," he said firmly. "Don't let go. No matter what."

"Wha — ah!" Sherlock's voice broke as John skimmed a hand down that endless torso, over his nipple. He visibly collected his thoughts and tried again. "What are you going to do?"

John smiled. He leaned down until the length of his body was just skimming Sherlock's, a warm line of skin pressed to skin connecting them from shoulder to hip. He took Sherlock's mouth, kissing soft and deep, before pulling back with a sigh.

"I am going to give you what you need," he whispered, every word heavy with promise. "I am going to make sure that you feel nothing but me, think of nothing but me." He smiled again, kissing the very corner of Sherlock's mouth now, those lush lips parted in surprise and fascination. "And then I am going to fuck you until you can't think at all."

Sherlock moaned at that, the sound harsh and involuntary.

"Mmm," John hummed approvingly, smearing his thumb across Sherlock's mouth. "Let's begin."

He unceremoniously stripped off Sherlock's pajama bottoms, leaving him bare and exposed, sprawled across the small bed. At first he was methodical, almost studious, mapping the bare skin of Sherlock's body with fingertips and mouth. With a surgeon's sure hands he pressed and stroked, lips and tongue following behind to taste and suck every inch of tender skin. Sherlock's frantic arousal seemed to have faded to a dreamy haze. John watched his expression closely, savoring every gasp he wrung from those parted lips, every twitch of sleek muscles he elicited from Sherlock's pliant body.

This,  _this_  is what he wanted, what he craved. Breaking past the sharp brittle exterior Sherlock showed to the world to the soft secret warm places — pink tongue and tender skin, fluttering eyelashes and soft little noises of entreaty that John savored and then callously disregarded. Christ it was hard to keep himself focused when John wanted nothing more than to just push inside and pound Sherlock into the mattress, but he clenched his fists and bit his lip and continued to take Sherlock apart slowly, deliberately.

"John," Sherlock sighed, half complaint and half plea, hips pushing unabashedly upwards until by blind luck he managed to smear the head of his cock across John's half-open mouth.

John pinned his hips firmly in place. "Easy now," he said, huffing the words against the rosy taut skin of Sherlock's shaft. He indulged himself for a moment, curling his tongue around and up, and Sherlock's shocked choked noise was everything he could have imagined. "Not quite yet, love," he breathed, pulling away and guiding Sherlock's flailing hands back to the bars of the headboard.

Sherlock made a noise of frustration and John had to surge back up the bed to claim that petulant mouth, his hands wound tight in that dark curly hair, letting Sherlock taste himself bitter and sweet on John's tongue.

When John finally managed to break away his breath was coming in short pants. He didn't think he could hold out much longer, seeing Sherlock stretched long and graceful beneath his body, the gleam of sweat making his alabaster skin luminous.

"Fucking Christ, Sherlock," he whispered into the damp skin of Sherlock's neck — a prayer and a benediction both. "Gorgeous..."

He shook his head a fraction, trying to ground himself. "Eyes closed now," he told Sherlock, his voice rough with arousal as he finally allowed himself to shove his pants down to his ankles and kick them off.

Sherlock obediently closed his eyes even as every muscle seemed to strain forward with tension, forearms and biceps flexing where Sherlock clenched the barred headboard in a white-knuckled grip. John saw the flicker cross Sherlock's face as he heard the cap on the bottle opening and marked the unmistakable sound of John slicking his fingers. Anticipation and the smallest shadow of fear flitted across Sherlock's expression, and John knew that he had made the right decision.

John pressed his face into the soft skin of Sherlock's neck, breathing him in. He felt Sherlock's startled jump as John's slick hand came down to slide luxuriously up and down his cock a few times — not trying to get him off, just keeping him at the edge.

"John," Sherlock groaned, voice low and ragged, and the sound of it thrummed through John's whole body. John had always been good with his hands, and he kept Sherlock distracted with the slow drag of his right hand while John's left hand worked silently, surreptitiously.

If Sherlock wondered why John's breath on his throat had suddenly gone harsh and panting he showed no sign. He pressed greedily up into the stroke of John's palm.

"I can't — ah — oh, John — I need — need more..." The words were falling from Sherlock's lips, his eyes still pressed obediently tight, his whole face stark with need.

"I know, love. Just a moment," John whispered against his skin. He knew he should take more time, prepare himself better, but he didn't care. With a swift move John straddled Sherlock's lean and seeking hips, positioned him, and started to sink down.

"What — oh fuck, what? — John!" Sherlock's eyes flew open, wide as saucers. John bit his lip, trying to relax, to push past the burn and stretch and total unfamiliarity of it all. It did hurt, more than a bit, but John and pain were old friends, and he'd never had a better reason to hurt. So as Sherlock's cock breached his body he bit down harder on his lip until he tasted copper and took that pain, let it roll over and through him, and then let it go.

"Oh — oh — oh — " Sherlock was babbling. He started to tremble, his eyes darting between John's face and the place they were joined as if he couldn't quite comprehend what he was seeing. "You can't — you don't — oh, fuck,  _John_!"

John managed to chuckle despite it all. It wasn't often that he got to surprise Sherlock Bloody Holmes, and in this instance in particular he really should have known, the daft bastard. If there was any concern that an offer made in the exigency of need might be regretted, if there was any pain to be had in an awkward first coupling, then Sherlock should have  _known_  that John would take those regrets and that pain unto himself a million times over before he would ever let Sherlock experience them, goddammit. That was the way they were, John and Sherlock, and they would damn sure not be changing things now.

And yet Sherlock  _hadn't_  known, because he was looking at John as if he were the most amazing and fascinating creature on earth, and the warmth in those silver eyes made John shudder and sink down faster, until he was suddenly resting on Sherlock's lean hips, fully seated.

"Oh," Sherlock said again, his voice stunned and slurred with pleasure. "Oh,  _fuck_." John realized he had never heard Sherlock curse before tonight. The word seemed harsh and filthy and so incredibly arousing falling from that perfect mouth that it made John's thighs flex experimentally, lifting himself up in a slow, dragging, slide and then sinking back down with a slight grunt of satisfaction. And  _oh_ , he could see it now, why people liked this. That was...that was still strange, and a little too full, and yet for some reason also very very  _good_.

Realizing his eyes had drifted closed in sensation, John snapped them open again. His heart, already pounding, thumped erratically at the sight of Sherlock. He looked simply devastated, eyes wide with stunned pleasure, his whole body trembling under John, the tendons of his arms standing out like ropes under the strength of his grip.

"Easy, love," John crooned, petting Sherlock's chest and arms until some of the tension abated. "Too much?"

It was adorable, how frantically Sherlock shook his head. "Don't stop." He gasped in a long, shuddering breath. "It's just... _John_..." Sherlock seemed almost on the verge of tears as the words failed him, and John couldn't hold back. He reached down, pulling Sherlock's head up, ignoring the twinge where they were joined as he leaned down to ravish that mouth. Sherlock was kissing him back frantically, mumbling incoherent words between kisses. John rode out the initial fury of it and then gentled him slowly with his mouth, soothing him until the kiss turned deep and lazy, as if they had all the time in the world.

They broke apart, gasping for air, and  _oh_ , the jolt of pleasure that sizzled through John as he pushed himself back upright. His body had adjusted now, the moments spent lost in the pleasure of Sherlock's mouth put to excellent use. He moved again, slow rocking movements at first, getting used to the feeling of Sherlock's cock nudging up inside him. A little shift in the angle and  _Jesus Christ_ , where had this been all his life?

It was a serious effort to pull his attention outwards again but worth it at the view of Sherlock, flushed with pleasure, trying valiantly not to move but betraying himself with frantic little squirms of his hips.

John couldn't help but flash him an amiable smile. "I think I've got the hang of it now," he said, and Sherlock's surprised bark of laughter transformed into a guttural moan as John found a rhythm, raising and lowering himself in a smooth glide.

"Just..." John dug his fingers into the backs of Sherlock's thighs and — brilliant man that he was — Sherlock seemed to understand immediately, bending his knees, bracing John's back.

"Oh that's — that's just  _gorgeous_ ," John purred. Bolstered against Sherlock's long thighs, their whole bodies slippery with sweat, he could move smoothly now — long slick pushes and pulls, an electric jolt hitting him at the crest of almost every one. Sherlock seemed to fill a space inside him that John had never realized was empty, and it was absolutely  _exquisite_. John's eyes shut tight as he concentrated, moving faster and rougher, trying to get Sherlock as deep as he could go.

"John — nghh — JohnJohnJohn — I'm so close, I can't last..."

John smiled ferally, still riding Sherlock hard and fast, not breaking his rhythm for a moment. "Good," he ground out. He reached out, tugging at Sherlock's right forearm. "Touch me, love."

He saw with satisfaction the effort it took for Sherlock to pry his hand off the bar of the headboard. Both of them groaned aloud to see the white imprint across Sherlock's palm, slowly turning pink. With a mischievous quirk of his mouth Sherlock gazed up at John through his long lashes and then licked a long, luxurious stripe up his palm, following the line of the mark. John watched avidly and then roared as that spit-slick palm wrapped around his neglected cock, stroking confidently.

Then words became impossible, as Sherlock's hand on John's cock matched the fast, hard rhythm John was setting. The only sounds now were the harsh panting of their breath, the slick sounds of their movements, and the metallic clang of the bed as John fucked himself hard, alternately pushing himself onto Sherlock's cock and into his fist, feeling possessed and taken in a way that was entirely new.

" _John_ ," Sherlock said one more time, a broken syllable of overpowering need. John closed his eyes for a moment, letting it all wash over him — the smell of musky arousal and salty sweat, the feel of Sherlock,  _his_  Sherlock, hard and hot and insistent inside him. Just a little more, just a little more...He opened his eyes again, meeting Sherlock's silver gaze, feeling that ravenous focus consume him.

He had been at the edge for so long his orgasm caught him almost by surprise, a startled shout escaping him as it rushed over his body. His thighs trembled as he tried to ride Sherlock through it, the unfamiliar clenching of his body around Sherlock's unyielding hardness devastating him, sending shock after shock of pleasure through him as he spilled into Sherlock's fist.

"Fuck, fuck..." he groaned, words falling helplessly from his mouth. He was still moving, still pulsing, vision whiting out as he was wracked with pleasure, hands skidding against the sweat-slippery skin of Sherlock's chest. "Come, come,  _come with me, love..._ "

Through the haze of pleasure he felt Sherlock bucking violently into him and then  _oh God_ , Sherlock was coming too, an overwhelming barrage of sensation — Sherlock's lean body arching between his thighs, Sherlock making harsh desperate noises as he bucked and writhed, the feel of Sherlock pulsing warm and wet  _inside his body_. It was so unbearably intense, so stunningly intimate, that John felt like his skin could barely contain it. He pitched himself forward, arms snaking around Sherlock to hold him tight through the last few aftershocks, pressing their sweaty bodies as close as they could be.

His face buried into Sherlock's damp neck, John felt tears prickling at his eyes, a lump gathering in his throat at the unbearable sweetness of it all. He blinked a few times, cursing himself inwardly for being such a soppy git. It was several minutes before he had his breathing under control and could raise his head, half afraid of what he would see on Sherlock's face.

A wave of tenderness washed over him. Sherlock looked equally destroyed, wide damp eyes watching John with an expression of bewilderment. His left arm was stretched above his head, hand still laxly wrapped around the bar.

With only a small twinge of pain, John pulled himself off Sherlock's softening cock. He reached up and gently pulled Sherlock's arm down, kneading the muscle of the bicep and forearm with his fingertips before rubbing his thumb soothingly over the marked palm. When he let go, Sherlock dropped the arm weightily over John's shoulders, drawing him down again.

Sherlock drew his hand through John's hair, nuzzling his face into the top of his head. "John," he finally said, his voice ragged, and then stopped.

"Yeah," John said. "I know."


	21. The Shock

The smell of chlorine burned his nasal passages. The weight of the bomb vest dragged on his shoulders. The voice whispered mockingly in his ear, making bile rise in his throat.

He stepped out of the changing room. Sherlock's face was starkly lit by the fluorescent lights above, ripples of blue reflecting up at him from the pool's surface. Clear enough for John to see the moment of recognition, that automatic spark of happiness that always lit Sherlock's eyes when he first saw John. And then in the next moment the blank confusion, and then finally the look of utter wounded betrayal. Sherlock, who carefully guarded his every expression, was suddenly so vulnerable, so transparent. John had done that to him.

John felt his heart lurch. He gritted his teeth, biting back the desperate need to say something,  _anything_ , to take that expression off Sherlock's face. But he couldn't. His words were not his own, not unless he wanted to kill them both. The only words he could speak were those whispered venomously in his ear.

"Evening," he said. His hands, hidden in the damned pockets of the parka, clenched into fists. "This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

" _John_ ," Sherlock said. "What the hell...?" His voice trailed off as if the breath had suddenly been squeezed from his lungs. He looked at John as if John had broken something inside of him.

"Bet you never saw this coming," John gritted out, stomach turning as he realized what the voice in his ear was trying to make Sherlock think.

Worse than the confusion, worse than the betrayal, Sherlock's face changed once again. Now it showed nothing but resignation. "I had a friend once," he said.

* * *

"What?" John lurched awake, his heart pounding. "Oh, Christ." He opened bleary eyes. Sherlock was in bed next to him, looming over him, balanced on one elbow. "Sherlock?"

"I had a friend once," Sherlock repeated, his voice oddly stilted. "Not Seb. A real friend, or at least I think he was."

John scrubbed a weary hand over his face, his heart still pounding in his chest. He should have grown accustomed by now to Sherlock's sudden need for conversation in the wee hours of the night, but he had never been less in the mood. He tried to sit up and winced as every ache and pull from last night's activities made itself known. Stifling a pained groan, he settled for rolling up on one elbow instead.

"Christ, did you sleep at all? What time is it?" he rasped, his voice muddied with sleep.

"Half past seven."

"What?" John scrabbled for his phone, squinting at the display. "Can't be, I have a morning shift, I set my alarm for..."

"I turned it off," Sherlock interrupted imperiously. "You were tired. It takes you six minutes to dress and fifteen minutes to walk to work, which leaves us nine minutes to converse. Assuming you stop interrupting."

"I need to..."

"We showered early this morning. You needed sleep more than you needed to repeat another useless step in your morning ritual. Now, any more time you wish to waste, or can we use our remaining  _eight_  minutes to converse?"

Oh. Right. John's flustered irritation with being woken so abruptly faded somewhat at the memory. Exhausted and sated, they had finally dragged each other into the shower, unable to do more than lean heavily together, arms wrapped around each other in a loose embrace as the hot water streamed over and between them.

John's mind belatedly replayed Sherlock's words. His head seemed to clear instantly as he took in Sherlock's averted gaze, the way his shoulder was hunched as if his body was curling in on itself protectively.

He stroked a hand down Sherlock's back soothingly. "Your friend. Who was he?"

Sherlock seemed to ease at John's touch, his voice softened by nostalgia when he spoke again. "His name was Victor. Victor Trevor."

Sherlock rolled over onto his back, steepling his fingers under his mouth thoughtfully, gazing at the ceiling.

"If you think people find me...unnerving...as an adult, imagine if you will the unnatural child and adolescent that I was. I found people to be unrelentingly dull, and they found me to be unrelentingly...discomfiting. That caused the best of them to keep their distance from me, and the worst of them...well, the worst of them took pleasure in tormenting me."

John did not want to interrupt, but he couldn't help reaching out, a quick reassuring brush of his knuckles against that pale cheekbone. Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut, his face pushing into the touch briefly before he resumed.

"I thought that Seb was different, but his interest in me soon turned out to be...insincere."

John gritted his teeth, wishing for the hundredth time that he had put a fist to Seb's smug face when he had the chance.

"After things with Seb ended badly, I stayed to myself for the most part. And then one day as I was walking in Chapman's Garden, Victor's bull terrier sank his teeth into my ankle and refused to let go. I was laid up for ten days. Victor came to apologize, and then...he continued to visit, even after I was healed." Sherlock's voice was tinged with remembered confusion, and John's heart lurched at the idea of Sherlock, so puzzled that someone would voluntarily seek his company.

"He was opposite to me in many ways — hearty, and energetic, but for some reason he was as friendless as I. It created a bond between us." Sherlock's voice trailed off.

John waited as long as he could, his heart aching in his chest for the young man Sherlock had been, before finally prompting. "What happened?"

"Hmmm?" Sherlock seemed to rouse from his thoughts. "Oh, it was disastrous. He asked me to visit his father's estate, in Norfolk, and I did. I was under the impression that Victor shared my...inclinations. I had grievously misread the situation. He was...shocked, and repelled by my advances."

John flushed with empathic humiliation. If Sherlock's approach to John was any indication, Sherlock had probably gone straight for Victor's belt buckle, or some other equally unsubtle overture. The set-down must have been crushing.

John remembered his first romantic rejection. Little Sunita Kelly, the Indian-Irish girl next door, had dashed his 13-year-old hopes and it had taken him weeks to recover from the sting of her dismissal. He could only imagine how much worse it had been for Sherlock, gathering the courage to try after Seb and finding not only a rejection of his romantic advances but of his very sexuality, as well as losing his only friend in the process.

"Christ, Sherlock," he said feelingly. He lifted Sherlock's hand, placing a kiss on the back of it. "I'm so sorry, love."

The twitching frown of Sherlock's mouth showed that he was not nearly as unaffected as he was trying to appear, but he managed a careless shrug. "After the initial awkwardness he tried to insist that it would not affect our friendship, but of course he was just being kind. The next morning there was a train schedule on my breakfast plate, and we only crossed paths inadvertently after that."

John felt his jaw set with rage, forcing his hand to unclench where he still held Sherlock's slim fingers. "That wasn't kindness, Sherlock. That was cowardice."

Sherlock seemed to think that over, and then finally dipped his head in acknowledgment. He was silent for a long moment, still staring at the ceiling thoughtfully, before he seemed to dismiss the entire episode with an eloquent gesture. "It was a blow, but I felt a learning experience. Twice I had lacked basic insight into the emotions of others. Twice I had inferred deeper feelings where they did not exist."

He finally looked at John, his grey eyes piercing. "I am well aware that I have...limitations in understanding the nuances of emotion in others. If I ever thought at times that your regard for me surpassed friendship..." He shook his head, as if frustrated with his ability to express his thoughts. "That was not a risk I was willing to take again, especially...especially if it meant the end of our friendship. I would not have jeopardized that for anything."

"Come here." John finally gave in to his need to pull Sherlock close, settling his head against his shoulder. He traced his fingers through Sherlock's short curls. "I know," he finally said. "I was worried about bollixing everything up too. But that's behind us now."

There seemed to be some strange tension still in Sherlock's body...something not quite right. John felt his brow furrow. "I'm glad you could tell me this, but...why now? What brought all this up?"

Sherlock rolled away, slowly sitting up, his back to John. "No reason," he said, his voice striking John as just a little bit...off. "I felt...strangely compelled to tell you, John, how much I...value what we have. It is never something that I expected, but now that I have it..." Sherlock's spine seemed to straighten with resolve. "...I will do whatever I have to in order to keep it."

"What?" John sat upright as well. "Of course we'll keep it, Sherlock." He pushed himself to his feet, starting to round the bed to where Sherlock was sitting, but Sherlock jumped up abruptly.

"You have only five minutes remaining to dress, I'm afraid. I'll make you tea and toast to take with you."

"You'll..." The idea of Sherlock sending him off to work with a cuppa and a kiss like some parody of a 1950's housewife only deepened John's feeling of unease. "Sherlock, what's going on?"

Sherlock began making unnecessary amounts of noise in the kitchen — there was no way that tea and toast, even in whatever bizarre way Sherlock might prepare it, would require such banging of pots and pans. "Get dressed, John," he snapped over the noise. "Any delay will be a change in your routine."

John grimaced, yanking clothes from his drawers at random and pulling them on in jerky movements. "Don't try to manipulate me like that, Sherlock, we're both all too aware of the damned routine." He gathered up his wallet and keys, shoving them in his trouser pockets. He reached for his phone, and his eyes suddenly narrowed in realization. "You did this on purpose — turned off my alarm and timed this conversation so that you could shove me out the door right afterwards. You're trying to keep me from asking questions, which only makes me suspicious as hell."

John sat on the bed, pulling his socks on and shoving his feet roughly into his shoes. When he looked up again Sherlock was standing in the kitchen doorway, his eyes wary.

John froze, doubt blooming like ice in his chest. "Is this about last night? Was it — did I push you too far?"

Sherlock blinked, his wary expression suddenly crumbling into tenderness. In two swift steps he was sitting next to John, his warm hand clasping John's suddenly numb fingers.

" _John_  — no, no, don't ever think that," he said, his voice low and fervent. He pressed his face into John's neck. "Last night was... _profoundly_  affecting," he muttered.

John felt almost limp with relief. He wound his hand in Sherlock's curls. "What is it, then? What's wrong?"

"John." Sherlock's voice was the barest whisper against John's skin. "I cannot endure without you. I am afraid of what I might become."

John pulled in a startled breath. "Sherlock — this isn't like you. Your behavior, you're — you're worrying me."

"It's nothing." Sherlock abruptly pulled back, shrugging, his face suddenly composed again. "I'm — I'm just irritated that the footage has not yielded any results. I need...I need space to think. The information is there, I know it, it is all in my mind now, I just have to  _think_. That's all it is."

"Oh." He still felt a little uneasy, but Sherlock's explanation made sense. John had been in the flat all weekend, and god knows Sherlock didn't have the option to get out if he wanted a little time alone. Maybe Sherlock was actually trying to be tactful with the tea and all that, instead of just telling John to get the hell out already so he could have some peace and quiet for his thoughts. John smiled a bit at the thought that attempts at tact coming from Sherlock just translated into incredibly creepy behavior.

"You'll find it." He squeezed Sherlock's hand.

"I will," Sherlock replied, a little too quickly.  _"I have to."_

John's eyes scanned Sherlock's face. "Sherlock..."

"John!" Sherlock pushed quickly to his feet, dragging John up by his arm as well. "You are inexcusably late now, you'll have to forego the tea and toast." He practically shoved John toward the door.

"I'm going, I'm going..." John allowed himself to be herded forward. Sherlock opened the door just enough for John to slip through and John stopped in the hallway, one hand braced on the door to hold it open. "Just...you're not going to do anything rash, right? Just...thinking?"

"Of course, of course," Sherlock replied impatiently. "I'll see you this evening."

The door closed firmly in John's face. He ran a hand through his hair, still feeling uneasy, but turned and started down the hall. He checked the time on his phone and cursed. He would have to rush if he was going to make the start of his shift on time.

* * *

John buzzed for his next patient. He waited a few moments, but no one came through. Kathy must have stepped away from the desk. One more patient until his lunch break, and he was impatient to get finished. He stepped outside the exam room, pulling the file for the next case from the plastic holder and glancing through it on his way to the waiting room. Another case of the 'flu.

He idly scanned the waiting room, wondering in the back of his mind how many of the patients Sherlock could diagnose in a single glance. A few cases of the flu, poison ivy rash, allergic rhinitis, liver disease in that one based on the level of jaundice...

John's eyes landed on a young man, probably fifteen or sixteen, who seemed to have been dragged here very reluctantly by his mother based on the tense, hushed argument going on between them. He was twitching nervously in his seat, hands fluttering in jerky motions. Sexually transmitted illness? No, John suddenly placed what he was seeing. Not something that came up that often in family practice or in the army either for that matter, he was more used to seeing the effects of marijuana or amphetamines, but he remembered this from his training rotations in the emergency department. Glassy eyes, restless movements of the hands, profuse sweating. Such a shame, his mother probably just thought he had a fever or something, and someone would have to tell her that her son was an...

The shock of it punched through him. Like a bullet to the shoulder, like the first time he tried to stand and his right leg suddenly folded underneath him. Like the moment Sherlock threw his mobile away and John realized that he was truly going to jump.

It had been right there in front of him, and he had missed it, completely and totally  _missed_  it. Like the idiot Sherlock so often called him, he had seen but he hadn't  _observed_. The way Sherlock had looked in the first few days after his return, twitching and startling at every noise. John had been so blind, chalking it all up to ten months on the run, but it wasn't only that, was it? He just hadn't wanted to see what was right in front of his face.

Quick on the heels of that realization came another.

_["I will do whatever I have to..." Sherlock had said. "The information is there, I know it, it is all in my mind now, I just have to_ _think_ _."]_

"Oh, Christ." John barely realized he had mumbled it aloud.

"John?" Sarah's voice over his shoulder made him jump. She was looking at him with concern. "Everything all right?"

"Sarah..." John's mind was racing. "I...I just realized, I think I left the stove on at home. Can you take one patient for me? I'll just nip back to the flat and be back before my lunch ends..."

He was already shoving the file into her hands, turning toward the door.

"John!" Her voice was sharp. "Are you sure you're all right? I do need you back after lunch, we're swamped."

John plastered a smile on his face. "Yeah, definitely. Back after lunch. I just have to..."

He was already moving for the door. He had no idea if he were lying or not, and he didn't care in the least. He had to get back, had to see Sherlock. He only hoped that he would be in time.


	22. The Poison

John opened the door to the flat, his heart in his throat, his pulse hammering. Cold water trickled down his neck from his hurried walk in the rain, umbrella left behind at the office.

Half-expecting to find the flat empty, he was almost as startled as Sherlock was.

"John!" Sherlock had been sitting at the desk but he jumped up, his pale eyes wide. "Why are you here? You shouldn't have come..."

The relief of seeing Sherlock faded instantly as John's eyes scanned both Sherlock and the flat, seeing the evidence as if it was emblazoned in neon. He hadn't yet. But he was going to.

John swallowed, turning around and closing the door carefully behind him. He stared at his hand on the doorknob for a moment, reluctant to turn around and face whatever would happen next.

"John?" Sherlock asked softly, but he didn't approach.

John turned around, leaning heavily back against the door. God, his leg ached. "Just...don't."

"I don't know what you...I just got out of the shower..."

John's bark of harsh laughter seemed to shock them both into silence. He looked away from Sherlock, struggling for control. "Do I really need to spell it out for  _you_ , the great detective?" John spat bitterly. "Not only are you dressed for the first time in days, and in clothes you would never wear unless you were trying to put on some sort of disguise, but your shoulders are wet — not down your back from wet hair, but evenly across your shoulders from rain. There's a wet shoeprint on the carpet. You just got back."

He could see the fine tremor shaking Sherlock's hands, and then Sherlock shoved his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, visibly gathering himself. The quicksilver eyes gazed at him defiantly. "Fine. I knew you wouldn't like it, but John..."

The blood pounded harder in John's temples, and dammit he could see Sherlock assess his response and fluidly change strategies, trying to placate now. "John, I knew you wouldn't approve, but I thought it would be beneficial at this juncture to check in with my homeless network."

And then Sherlock smiled. Not the shy quirk of his mouth, or the sudden genuine grin John was privileged to see on very rare occasions. This was the unnatural grimace, the flash of the teeth and dead eyes that Sherlock used on witnesses and patrol officers who got in his way. The one he thought was reassuring, because John had never had the heart to tell him that it simply put peoples' teeth on edge. It was his sociopath's smile and John hadn't seen it aimed at him since their first meeting, when Sherlock had warned him that potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, flashing that empty smile as if to emphasize the point.

In three quick strides John was in front of Sherlock, crowding him back against the desk. He could feel the rage building, howling to be set free. " _Don't._ Don't you  _dare_  put on that fucking mask and don't you  _dare_  lie to me again."

Sherlock's eyes skittered away guiltily. "John..."

"This. Body. Is.  _MINE!"_  John roared, not even realizing he had bodily shoved Sherlock up against the wall until he was crushed against him, his mouth smashing into Sherlock's with bruising force. The kiss was cruel, a punishment, John plundering Sherlock's gasping mouth with total possession, one hand tugging painfully at his hair while the other wrapped around the hollow of his spine, crushing him even closer.

Sherlock keened a high whine into John's mouth and John suddenly came back to himself as if cold water had been thrown over him. He tore himself free of Sherlock, tottering back a few steps. He licked his lips nervously and tasted the coppery tang of blood. It made his stomach churn.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," he breathed. He closed his eyes. He pushed the anger down, his whole body prickling with cold sweat.

He limped to the other side of the room, cursing the hitch in his step, just wanting to put as much distance between himself and Sherlock as possible. He leaned his forehead against the far wall, pressing his hands against the rough plaster, blinking back angry tears from his eyes. Sherlock remained silent.

"I've been a bloody fool," John finally said, his voice rough. "Here I thought Mycroft was playing matchmaker, and maybe he was, but that's not all there was to it, was there? There always has to be layer upon layer of ulterior motive with you two, doesn't there? Mycroft wanted you here instead of some secure location because he knew that I..."

"That you what, John?" Sherlock's voice was sharp and thin.

John steeled himself. He turned around, leaning against the wall, hoping his leg would hold out at least until this was through. "That I wouldn't tolerate an  _addict_ ," he spat. Sherlock flinched and the word seemed to hang in the air between them, stark and brutal. It hurt too much to even look at Sherlock, his face angry and yet so vulnerable. John closed his eyes. "Not anymore," he said, half to himself. "Not after my father, not after Harry." He forced himself to look at Sherlock again. "I won't do it, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes met John's for just a moment before sliding away again. "It's a neural enhancer, John.  I'm getting nowhere, I need it, I need it to _think_..."

"It's a fucking Class A drug, Sherlock, and you brought it here, to my flat!" He felt the rage rising up again and took a deep breath, trying to tamp it down. "After all we've done to keep you hidden, you left the flat, for this, for  _drugs_. Some ratty pusher knows where you are and what you look like, and if this..." John took a breath, shaking with rage. "If this is what kills us..."

"Don't say that!" Sherlock's voice was raspy, desperate. "That's what I'm trying to stop, I'm trying to  _save_  us, John!"

John shook his head. He felt the rest of the world drop away, his body suddenly deadly calm. The sudden flares of anger had settled into a cold, detached fury. "God, you don't even see it, do you? It's not just you anymore, d'you understand? It's you and me now, the both of us. And  _you are not allowed to do this to us_."

Sherlock was pacing now, hands shoved deep into his pockets, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Finally he spun, pale eyes staring John down defiantly.

"Do you think this is the worst I had to do while we were apart?" he cried out. "This is the very  _least_  of it, John." His eyes were wild, his gestures sharp and frantic. "I killed, I maimed, I tortured, and was tortured in return. I pushed myself to the limits of my transport — past pain, past exhaustion, past starvation, to the border of madness. I rained veritable  _hellfire_  down on anyone with even the most tenuous connection to Moriarty's network. The people I killed — I see them in my dreams, John. Their blood and their vomit and their  _eyes_..."

Sherlock suddenly seemed to realize what he was saying. He pulled in a shuddering breath, visibly trying to calm himself, his voice a low growl when he spoke again. "I did all of that, John, for  _you_. To keep you alive, to get back to you. I have spent my whole life without anyone, without  _this_ , and I finally have it, and it  _will not_ be snatched from me at this final hour. No matter what it takes, I will not allow it. Moran will not take you away from me now."

"Jesus, Sherlock." John stumbled toward Sherlock, grabbing him by the shoulders. He pressed his forehead against Sherlock's, as if he could will his thoughts into that brilliant, volatile mind. "Moran isn't the one doing this to us now.  _You_  are. If you put that needle in your vein you will end us, in a way that he never could."

"John..." Sherlock's voice was ragged. He ducked down, trying to capture John's lips, and John pushed himself away.

" _No_ ," he said harshly, to himself as much as to Sherlock. Because God knows he was weak where Sherlock was concerned, but  _this_...this was something John just could not do.

John clenched his fists. "I won't do it, Sherlock. I won't be with you, wondering if this is the day I come home to find you high, or if this is the night I get a call that you've been found dead in an alley. I cannot stand by silently and watch you poison the thing I love." With icy calmness, John turned for the door.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock's eyes were wide, his voice high and frantic.

John grabbed a tall umbrella from the hook. It would do as a makeshift cane for now. "Back to the surgery."

"What? You're...leaving?"

John met Sherlock's eyes squarely. "I need to be able to trust you. Know that you'll stay clean not because I caught you, but because you know it's the right thing to do for us." He took a deep breath. "If you are still here when I get back, I will be..." His voice started to break, and he shook his head in frustration at his own weakness. "...beyond grateful. And we will figure this out, the both of us, I swear to you. We will find a way to get Moran." He steeled himself, forcing the next words out. "But if you're going to shoot up, call Mycroft. Because I don't want you here when I get back."

He turned the handle, pulling the door open.

"John!" John turned, hope surging in his chest.

"Your — your leg," Sherlock finally stuttered. "They'll know."

John felt a great weariness settle over him. "I'll fake a fall on the stairs." He took one more look at Sherlock, as if it were the last time. For all he knew it would be. The icy anger was giving way to grief now. He should have known better. A man like Sherlock Holmes would never be satisfied with the ordinary, would always have been chasing the next impossible high. John would never have been enough for him.

"Goodbye, love," he heard himself saying, and then he was in the hall, stumbling down the endless flights of steps. On the front steps, in full view of anyone who might happen to be watching, he let his heel catch, his leg buckling under him, knee hitting hard enough to justify the limp. He had to convince any watchers that he was broken, damaged. He was hardly acting at all.


	23. The Novel

John limped his way back through the waiting room of the surgery, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone.

"John?"

He stifled a sigh, trying to paste a smile on his face as he turned to face Sarah. "Ta so much for letting me pop back, I did leave the stove on after all. I'll just get...dried off a bit and I'll be ready to go." His hair was plastered to his head, rivulets of rain still dribbling down his neck. The umbrella had been no help against the drizzle, pressed into service as a cane as it was.

He saw Sarah's eyes dart down to his leg and then back up. "John..."

"Took a tumble on the front steps. Damned clumsy of me, shouldn't have tried to rush in nasty weather like this. I'll just get started then, shall I?" He limped his way towards his office, trying not to lean as heavily on the umbrella as he would like. He could feel Sarah's eyes on his back. He snagged some drape sheets from a supply closet to dry off with, spine drooping with relief as he finally made it to his office and closed the door firmly behind him.

He hung his coat on the hook, toweling off his hair and lowering himself down into his desk chair with a hiss of pain. He stared blankly at the surface of his desk for a moment, trying not to think. Trying not to see Sherlock's devastated face, his haunted words.

_["I killed, I maimed, I tortured, and was tortured in return..."]_

He had been so focused on what  _he_  had gone through while Sherlock was away —  _his_  grief, and  _his_  anger, and  _his_  loss. How had he never stopped to think that what Sherlock had endured during their separation might have been infinitely worse? He should have realized when Sherlock refused to talk about it. He had seen the signs of trauma — the hypervigilance and the nightmares — and just like the signs of cocaine withdrawal, he had been so damned grateful to have Sherlock back that he had ignored it all.

John felt cold and empty, and slightly nauseous from lack of sleep and food, not to mention the violent emotions of the past hour. His mind roiled with doubts. He should have handled it differently, should have taken the time to really talk to Sherlock. Instead he had let his damned temper get the better of him — yelled at Sherlock, physically assaulted him, and then given him an ultimatum. And yet, how different could the result have been? He would not stand by and let Sherlock fall back into a drug habit that had nearly killed him, and yet there was nothing he could really do. The choice lay with Sherlock, and he was probably making it right now.

_Pull yourself together, Watson_ , he told himself sternly.

He looked at the time on his mobile. He still had fifteen minutes before his lunch break ended, but he would be damned if he'd walk that gauntlet through the waiting room again to get something to eat. He might as well catch up on some paperwork.

He reached automatically for a pen and then froze. His pencil mug, always placed on the left side of his desk within easy reach of his dominant hand, had been shifted to the right. John's eyes scanned his office, but he could see nothing else out of place.

He picked up the mug gingerly. A crisp white business card was underneath it. John blew out a frustrated breath as he read the dark script.

_Mycroft Holmes_

If there was one thing John was completely not in the mood for right now, it was being manipulated by another damned Holmes brother. Still, he couldn't stop himself from picking up the card, running a finger over the decadent line of letterpressed script, deeply indented in the thick linen paper. He turned the card over.

_desk drawer_

The words were scribed in such elegant copperplate script that it took John a moment to realize that it wasn't printed as well. Sherlock would have been able to tell him the model of the fountain pen down to the date of manufacture, no doubt. His hand shook a little at the thought of Sherlock, and he shoved the card into his pocket with irritation.

He pulled on his desk drawer. Still locked, but god knows that wouldn't have deterred Mycroft. He should be grateful that Mycroft had at least locked up after himself, John's prescription pad was in here. He pulled his keys from his pocket and unlocked the drawer.

He didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't this. A slim book, bound in ancient red leather.  _Contes et nouvelles en vers._ John's French was rusty at best.  _Tales and stories in_...something? John opened the front cover, looking at the title page.  _Par M. de la Fontaine. A Amsterdam. M. DCC. LXIL._  John did a quick translation in his head of the Roman numerals. 1700-and something. Mycroft or one of his minions had snuck into his office to leave him some 18th century poncey French novel?

_Oh._

_["Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock had said haughtily. "Mycroft and I established this contingency as young men. We would hardly rely on carting a rare edition of a novel about with us everywhere. We both memorized it." John squinted at the writing more closely. "French, no less," he teased. "You poncey bastards."]_

John leafed through the novel. Pressed between the delicate pages at intervals were clippings of classified advertisements. John turned the book spine-up and ruffled the pages. The clippings fluttered out like autumn leaves, settling on the surface of his desk.

John gathered them up. There must be twenty or more — coded messages exchanged between Mycroft and Sherlock while Sherlock was taking down Moriarty's web. John had some understanding now of what Sherlock had done, and here were more clues. Would it be a violation of Sherlock's trust to decode them? And yet Mycroft never did anything without a reason. There was something in these messages he wanted John to know, and fairly urgently.

John bit his lip uncertainly. He could lock the book back in his desk drawer and get started with his patients, and the Holmes brothers and their elaborate schemes could sod right off. Even as he thought it, though, he knew he wouldn't. He couldn't.

He reached for a pen and notepad, and started decoding. Each clipping was dated, and John decided to attack them in order. It was slow going. John's French was spotty at best, the language of the book was archaic, and some words were spelled out with initials where they apparently didn't appear in the text.

_Accessing security box Gen_ è _ve, do not block authorization._

_Return home at once, will provide all necessary resources._

Something John couldn't translate.. _.Cat_ é _goriquement._ _ **'**_ Categorically' maybe?  _refuse, do not ask again, will cease communication._

* * *

For the rest of the afternoon John spent every spare moment between patients decoding the messages, trying to get a sense of their meaning as best as he could.

_Target warned, act by tomorrow latest._

_Require_...something... _time 1445 street of Saint Frances._

_Drop point compromised, employ alternate._..something.

John was almost grateful for the distraction, anything to keep his mind off the question of whether Sherlock would be at the flat when he returned.

_Move team on my signal_...something...something... _critical._

_Italian contact has been_...something... _dead, much blood at meet point are you well?_

John could almost hear the anxiety underlying the terse message. From Mycroft, it was practically an emotional outpouring. He delayed buzzing for his next patient until he had found the one that came next chronologically and decoded it. Of course Sherlock had not even acknowledged his brother's concerns.

_Need border passage undetected_...something...something... _coordinates_ _42D45MN25D30ME_ _._

John had to look at that one for awhile before he figured it out. He quickly saw the next patient, diagnosing their rash and easing them out the door of the examination room in record time, before returning to his office to look at the message again. Of course. Coordinates. 42° 45" North 25° 30" East. Out of curiosity he pulled up the web browser on his computer and typed them into a search field. Bulgaria.

_Bukhalov will meet 2330 tonight code phrase PARABELLUM._

John's Latin was somewhat better than his French.  _Para bellum._ Prepare for war.

By the time John hustled his last patient out the door he had only two more messages to decode, and twenty minutes until he could start for the flat if he wanted to keep up the appearance of his routine.

_Viper slipped the net destination Senou Airport in pursuit._

Viper must be Moran. John turned to the last clipping. It was dated less than three weeks ago — four days before Sherlock had arrived at John's flat, to be exact.

_Votre docteur a besoin de vous. Y35LSKO3Y88XCOM._

John stared at the message, puzzled. "Your doctor needs you." The rest of it, though...John fiddled with it for a moment, trying to rearrange or substitute the letters. Finally he just squinted at it, trying to see a pattern. SKO could be an airport code. He looked it up online. Sokoto, Nigeria. Could that be something — a flight number and a destination, perhaps? The only thing that even remotely looked like a word was the end. Communication? Company?  _Oh._

John pulled up the web browser again, typing www.Y35LSKO3Y88X.com into the address field, leaning in intently as the page started to load.

John heard a sound, a harsh whine of surprise, and realized it had come from himself. There was nothing on the website but a picture of  _him_. Fairly close-up, it must have been taken with a zoom lens. John could see every line of fatigue and grief in his face, starkly illuminated by the streetlamp. His shoulders were slumped, his expression anguished. Devious Mycroft, he must have asked the photographer to catch him at a particularly bad moment. The bottle in his hand was in a paper bag, but the shape of a 750 milliliter bottle of alcohol was unmistakeable.

_["Why did you come back?" he had asked. "I mean, why now? You said yourself that it wasn't safe. You certainly weren't planning on staying here, you were furious when Mycroft told you. If you weren't getting sloppy, if you didn't need Mycroft's backup, why_ _did_ _you come back before it was done?"]_

John leaned back in his chair, holding his head. This is why. Almost a year underground, and John had wondered why Sherlock had returned when he did, before he had finished with Moran. Now he knew. Sherlock had returned because of  _John_ , out of concern for him.

_Your doctor needs you._

Four words and Sherlock had abandoned his schemes and returned to London, endangering himself, endangering them all, because Mycroft had convinced Sherlock that John needed him.

John felt humbled and guilty and sick all at once. He had known that Sherlock cared for him, even knew that Sherlock felt he loved him, despite his inability to say the words. And yet, John had always had a caveat in his own mind. That Sherlock loved John  _as much as he was able_  to love anyone. Never would he have thought that Sherlock could do something like this — risk everything, abandon all of his intricate plans, just because John required it. Putting John first, above all else. Deep down, John hadn't thought Sherlock capable of that. Knowing Sherlock had done something like that shook John to his foundations. It revealed the truth and depth of Sherlock's love for John more clearly than any words.

John had underestimated Sherlock, grievously. He only hoped that he had the chance to make it up to him. Both of them had revealed so much to each other over the past few weeks, and yet they both had still held some secrets back. If Sherlock was still at the flat, still clean, when John got back, John would tell his secret as well. Sherlock deserved nothing less.

It was time. John pushed himself to his feet, locking the book and clippings carefully back into his drawer. The last time he prayed he had been bleeding out on dusty Afghani soil, but he couldn't help but say a silent prayer now.

_Please, God, let him be there._


	24. The Confession

John took a deep breath, trying to collect himself. The tremor in his left hand was so violent that he could not fit the key in the lock, the thin shaft of metal scraping and skidding over the keyhole.  Leaning his shoulder against the wall to steady himself, he shifted the umbrella and bag of Thai takeaway to his left hand and fumbled the key into his right hand. He had forced himself to stop on the way home to pick up dinner.

_Sherlock would be hungry_ , he had told himself.

_Sherlock won't be there, you fool_ , the voice in his head had said.

The key finally slotted into place and turned, and John found himself frozen for a moment, paralyzed with warring hope and doubt.

_He would be there he wouldn't be there he would be there he wouldn't be there..._

Finally, he swung the door open and stepped inside. "Oh." The word was involuntary, squeezed out of his lungs with the last of his breath. "Oh, thank God."

Sherlock was sitting on the bed, rumpled in his pajamas and dressing gown, but his eyes were clear and sober.

John leaned against the door, the sudden rush of relief weakening his knees, making him feel sick and clammy. He let the takeaway bag, umbrella, and keys fall from his numb fingers.

"You're here," he found himself stating dazedly, and then cringed inwardly. He knew how Sherlock despised when people stated the obvious.

Sherlock's face showed no scorn, however. He simply nodded. "I cannot say that I completely understand the vehemence of your objections," he said gravely. "But I do understand that they are real, and that my substance use would cause you pain." He held his hand out, opening his fist to reveal the orange-tipped syringe, still full of a milky-white solution.

John didn't even remember moving but he must have because suddenly he was there, taking the syringe from Sherlock's offered palm. Despite his apparent composure Sherlock must have been gripping the syringe tightly for hours, the plunger leaving a deep white indentation across the fleshy pad at the base of his thumb.

John caught the hand before it could fall to Sherlock's lap, pressing a soft kiss to that harsh mark, feeling his breath puffing shallow and uneven against Sherlock's palm. And then his leg seemed to give out on him because he was suddenly thumping to his knees beside the bed, but it was fine, it was all fine, because from here he could wrap his arms around Sherlock's waist and bury his face in Sherlock's belly and just breathe him in. Sherlock, here in his arms, warm and real and so very loved.

"Thank you," he realized he was mumbling into Sherlock's worn t-shirt. "Thank you, thank you, oh Christ thank you..."

"John." Sherlock's voice was hesitant, almost puzzled. "You had to know that I would always choose you. Over anything." His hand came up to brush through John's hair, gently, tenderly.

John just shook his head and then pushed his face harder into Sherlock's belly, nuzzling against him, smelling his scent and warmth. Sherlock was right. He should have known, and he hadn't, but he did now.

Finally he took a deep breath and pushed back onto his heels, wiping dampness from his eyes with the heel of his hand. The syringe had fallen to the floor and he picked it up, taking it into the kitchen.

He could feel his body settling as he moved quickly and purposefully, pulling the container of laundry bleach from under the sink, opening it up and pouring a healthy splash of it into the lid. He pulled the protective cap off the syringe, placing the needle tip in the bleach and pulling carefully back on the plunger, watching as the substances mixed.

He had one pathetic long-dead plant in his kitchen, a present from Sarah when he had first moved. He tilted some of the soil into a plastic bag and injected the combined liquids into it. He capped the syringe, throwing it in for good measure, before sealing the bag and burying it at the bottom of his rubbish bin.

It was done. He felt like he could breathe again. Sherlock had been leaning against the kitchen doorway, silently watching John's overly elaborate disposal of the drugs. John's eyes met his for a moment, and then slid away somewhat nervously. He reached up into the high kitchen cabinet, fetching down the bottle of whiskey.

He heard Sherlock's grunt of surprise. "Is that really wise?" he asked John calmly.

No, it definitely wasn't, especially on no sleep and no food, but John pulled a glass from the shelf and poured himself a healthy measure anyway.

"Dutch courage," he said, trying for a grin and no doubt failing miserably given the concerned look it elicited from Sherlock.

"Courage?" Sherlock's keen eyes raked over John assessingly. "For what?"

John took a long sip of the whiskey, feeling it burn down his throat and warm his belly. He rolled his shoulders, and then forced himself to meet Sherlock's gaze squarely.

_No more secrets_ , he told himself firmly. "Come sit on the bed with me." He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "I'm going to tell you why I was drinking."

* * *

John sat in silence, trying not to fidget. If only he could tell what Sherlock was thinking. He had finished his explanation of the lucid dreaming several minutes ago, the words tumbling out of him in a somewhat jumbled confession, interrupted only by hurried sips of whiskey to bolster his flagging courage. Sherlock had quite uncharacteristically remained silent the whole time, listening intently.

By the time John had finally stammered to a finish Sherlock's eyes had grown distant and unfocused, hands steepling beneath his chin, a small furrow gathering between his thick brows. He had remained like that for what seemed to John to have been centuries. Finally, John could bear the silence no longer.

"I understand if...it's all very odd, I know...if you want me to...I mean, I know I can't actually go anywhere, but I could try to give you some space...if you feel uncomfortable, I mean..."

His fumbling words seemed to snap Sherlock out of his ruminations, the luminous silver eyes suddenly focusing on John's face.

"I could just...ummmfph." His startled exclamation was muffled by Sherlock's mouth crashing into his, tongue tangling with his own. John's hands hovered uncertainly for just a moment before landing on Sherlock, pulling him closer even as Sherlock was scrambling and fighting and pushing to get as close as he could possibly get to John.

Sherlock seemed frantic, fevered. He bore John back until he was sprawled across the bed at an awkward angle, heaving himself on top of John. He seemed as if he were trying to crawl right inside of John, kissing him as if he were the only thing he had ever wanted out of life. Sherlock's long fingers scrabbled under layers of clothing to reach bare skin, urgent little whines escaping him as he licked deeper into John's mouth.

John felt himself suddenly burst into an answering flame. All of the sickness and worry and exhaustion and relief of the past day seemed to ignite and tranform — a flashpoint of insatiable need that consumed him.

_This body is_ _mine_ , he had told Sherlock earlier in frustration and rage, and now he felt the overwhelming compulsion to prove it, to mark his claim on every inch of Sherlock's tender skin. Sherlock was his, body and soul, just as John was Sherlock's, and nothing short of utter and complete possession would satisfy him now.

They pushed and pulled at each other, vying for dominance, tugging erratically at clothing to reach naked skin. Sherlock's fingers were more dexterous, and so despite all of John's layers the last item of clothing left was Sherlock's t-shirt. Working in concert for once, John straddling Sherlock's hips, they both pulled on the fabric. Sherlock raised his arms above his head but instead of pulling the shirt free, John smiled wickedly, wrenching the fabric with a sudden twist, tangling Sherlock's wrists in the short sleeves.

"Dammit, John..." Sherlock muttered, and in answer John twisted the fabric a few more times, forming a tail of cloth that he rapidly knotted around one of the bars on the headboard.

Sherlock's glare was softened somewhat by the way his pupils dilated further, eyelids drooping in pleasure as he tugged against the binding. "This isn't actually going to hold me, you know."

"I know," John said. "But you do look lovely this way." He ran one hand from Sherlock's bound wrist, down the taut strength of his forearm and tricep, admiring the flex of tendon and muscle beneath the milk-pale skin. Sherlock shuddered underneath his touch. "Trust, me, if I want you immobilized, I'll do it right," John rasped. He nipped Sherlock's collarbone in emphasis, glorying in the hushed moan that elicited. He smiled against Sherlock's damp, flushed skin. "Right now I just need it to hold you long enough for me to do  _this_."

"Do wha —...oh, oh  _Christ_!" Sherlock's voice broke as John moved smoothly down his torso and then suddenly swallowed him down. Without prelude or teasing, John began to work Sherlock with his hand and mouth, hollowing his cheeks and sucking him in deep, brutal strokes.

"John...oh God...oh  _fuck_...John...wait..."

John hummed inquiringly around Sherlock's cock, making Sherlock's hips stutter and buck up hard into his mouth.

Sherlock was panting now, but still trying to force words out. "Going to...come...stop John...want you...inside me..."

John pushed Sherlock all the way to the back of his throat, swallowing around him, before pulling off. His hand took over the rhythm as he growled out his response.

"This first. Going to make you come this way, have you all lazy and languid. And then I'm going to wind you up again until you're ready for me, and the second time you come it'll be around my cock." Christ, John had never spoken like this to a bed partner, but with Sherlock it seemed to come naturally, the words spoken with utter conviction. He knew exactly what he wanted to do, and he wanted Sherlock to know as well. Sherlock's low keen of pleasure showed how much John's words were affecting him.

With ruthless efficiency John returned to his task. Sherlock must have freed his hands at some point — John could feel the slim fingers brushing through his hair, and then dipping down to the curve of his jaw, pressing lightly as if to feel the muscles work. The small, exploratory touches were more arousing than John would have ever dreamed, making him groan around Sherlock's cock.

"John!" John could feel every muscle in Sherlock's body wind tight. He shifted his weight, pinning Sherlock's hips with his chest and arm, teasing the very tip of his cock with his tongue for just a moment before pulling him in deep again. Sherlock cried out, hoarse and incoherent, and John swallowed around Sherlock as he came. He rode out the little bucks and shudders of Sherlock's hips, not stopping until he keened with oversensitivity. Only then did he finally pull off, gasping in ragged breaths, open-mouthed against Sherlock's hip.

Sherlock's hands were tugging at him, trying to pull him upwards, and John acquiesced. Sherlock's mouth met his in a messy kiss, and he let Sherlock snog him lazily for long minutes, smiling at the way Sherlock's tongue chased his own taste in John's mouth with a purr of satisfaction.

Finally John pulled back, still a little breathless. Sherlock was every bit as languid and loose-limbed as John had anticipated, and seeing him looking thoroughly debauched like that sharpened the ache in John's groin.

"On your knees, love," he said. Sherlock gave John a petulant glance, his half-hearted grumbling as he complied making John chuckle.

"Lazy," John chided affectionately, giving Sherlock a nip to the arse that earned him a sharp glare over Sherlock's shoulder.

With one hand firm on the nape of Sherlock's neck and another at the small of his back, John guided Sherlock until his torso was down over his folded knees, forearms braced on the bed. "Like this, I think," John mused aloud, his voice dark and covetous. "Just lovely."

Despite the lust gnawing at him, John had to take the time to appreciate the sight, ruffling the dark curls and then bumping his slightly-callused fingertips down the knobs of Sherlock's spine, stretched in a graceful arch. Sherlock's head was turned toward him, eyes wide and clear as he watched John's face, and it must have been John's imagination that those unearthly irises changed from blue to silver to green with every touch.

Suddenly touching wasn't enough. With a muffled groan John pressed his lips to Sherlock's spine, his left hand tickling along the edge of the healed knife-wound, making Sherlock shiver. Then, as Sherlock watched, John slowly and deliberately slicked his hand before running it down the cleft of Sherlock's arse.

He teased Sherlock at first, mouthing at his neck while running his finger in shallow circles until Sherlock began to press back impatiently with little huffs of frustration. Then he pushed in, one finger and then two, slowly working Sherlock open as he licked and sucked at the soft skin between his flexing shoulderblades. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the keen edge of his own need, waiting until Sherlock was fully hard again, rolling his hips in a wordless plea for more before sliding a third finger in. He twisted to find just the right spot to make Sherlock sob breathlessly, biting his own lip.

"Now...now, John...please...now..."

"Christ, yes," John breathed, a high whine escaping him at the first touch of his own slick hand on his neglected cock. He wound his other arm around Sherlock's chest, pulling him upright and holding him close as he pushed forward. He pressed his forehead hard against Sherlock's spine, sweating with the effort of restraining himself as he felt Sherlock's body yield to his for the first time.

"More. Now, John..."

John could sense Sherlock's movement before he made it, and he braced his hand on Sherlock's hip to prevent him from pushing back too quickly.

"Hush. Slow. Take it slow." He kept the pace tortuous, flexing his thighs to slide incrementally forward, until finally he was entirely surrounded by that incendiary tightness. "Ah, Christ, love. You feel..."

Then words left him as he rolled his hips gently, the press of Sherlock's body making sparks fly beneath his eyelids. He could feel Sherlock trembling now. "Okay?"

" _Move_ , John," Sherlock snapped, pushing his hips back against John's grip. And wasn't that Sherlock to a tee, his voice sharp and imperious even with John's cock up his arse? John smiled even as he nipped the skin over Sherlock's shoulderblade, tasting his sweat. Then he cradled Sherlock's slim hips in his hands, holding him still — as always, guarding Sherlock from his own reckless impetuousness.

When he finally began to move it was slow and deliberate, short small rocks into Sherlock's body, feeling him adjust and ease, and then a new tension slowly building in them both. John pressed down against Sherlock's shoulderblades and Sherlock let himself be guided, canting his hips back and arching his spine as his forearms rested on the bed.

"Oh!" he said, deep voice rich with discovery as they found the right angle. "Oh, Christ, John...just...just  _there_..."

And now John couldn't help but focus on his own pleasure, feeling it build and build with the strong, steady rhythm he was setting. Christ, he wasn't going to last long, and he wanted,  _needed_ , Sherlock to come with him.

He braced himself on his good arm, the shift of his weight pushing him even deeper, his chest draped over Sherlock's back. Sherlock was slender enough that it was no difficulty for John to curve his left arm around Sherlock's waist. Wrapping his left hand around Sherlock's cock, he began a slow slide. It took a moment to coordinate his movements and then it clicked, his hand working Sherlock in concert with the movement of his hips as he fucked into him slowly.

"John!" Sherlock was bracing himself, head hanging down, shuddering as if he didn't know which way to push.

"Yes..." John nipped and licked at Sherlock's skin, a raw sharp noise escaping him with every exhalation. "Come on, love, now..."

A few more desperate thrusts and he felt Sherlock tighten all around him, his cock pulsing in John's hand. John pulled his breath in on a harsh moan and then he was coming too, pleasure so sharp it was almost pain, an electric current that spiked through him, leaving him utterly spent.

They collapsed together, John hauling himself up Sherlock's limp body after a moment until he could pull him close to his chest.

"Christ, love. That was...beautiful."

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. "It was a very...novel experience."

It took a moment for Sherlock's words to penetrate John's satisfied haze. "Novel? That's..." He eased his shoulder out from under Sherlock's head, trying to see his face. "Hardly...complimentary."

"Shush, John. Compiling data." Sherlock's eyes were closed, his fingers steepled under his chin.

John swung his legs over the edge of the bed, running a frustrated hand through his hair. His post-mind-blowing-sex euphoria had turned to disappointment and irritation.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. Really?" he said, knowing even as he said it that it was useless. It was Sherlock, after all, and he was a fool to have expected...

John started to stand, and found his wrist caught in Sherlock's slim fingers. Those grey eyes were open now, watchful beneath a furrowed brow. Sherlock looked puzzled, as if he couldn't figure out what he had said wrong, and the expression softened John's ire.

"I...I need to remember that, John. I cannot lose a moment for waiting." Sherlock's eyes slipped closed again, and John thought he was done. He started to rise again, but the grip on his wrist only tightened.

"You were correct, what you said, John," Sherlock said, so softly that John could barely hear it. Sherlock's eyes were still closed, but a new flush of pink tinged his cheeks. "My body is yours. And this...this is as well." Grip firm on John's wrist, Sherlock slid John's hand, up over the sheets, grazing it over his own ribs and up his sternum to settle on the left side of his chest.

All of John's irritation and disappointment evaporated, scoured away by the rush of tenderness. He pressed his hand down firmly in acknowledgement, feeling Sherlock's heart thumping quick and steady beneath his palm. He leaned down, placing a kiss on each of Sherlock's closed eyelids, and then one more chaste kiss on his mouth.

"Compile, love," he said. "And when we're old and gray, you can remind me of every moment."

* * *

John and Sherlock were settled comfortably shoulder-to-shoulder, both propped up against the headboard. They were eating cold noodles straight from the takeaway containers — John with a fork and Sherlock, the posh bastard, expertly wielding chopsticks of course.

"Lucid dreaming," Sherlock said meditatively. John pushed another forkful of noodles into his mouth, hoping to cover his blush. "I've never experienced the state, which is quite disappointing now that I think of it."

John snorted. "You have to actually  _sleep_  before you dream."

"Mmmm." Sherlock dismissed the dig, apparently not to be deterred from his line of thought. "I still don't see why you were reluctant to tell me about it, however." The grey eyes slanted an intense look in John's direction. "If anything I find it...quite flattering."

_Christ, they were really going to talk about this, weren't they?_ John shrugged sheepishly. "I don't know, exactly. I mean...at best it seemed pathetic. Embarrassing enough when I thought you were dead. Once it turned out you were really alive, it seemed even more...I don't know...nonconsensual?"

Sherlock scoffed. "If anything, it sounds like the dream representation of me was having experiences that I would only envy."

He put his noodles aside and insinuated himself into John's space, an arm winding around John's lower back and a gangly leg strewn across John's thighs. John couldn't help smiling at that. He put his own noodles aside and pulled Sherlock closer, settling him more comfortably against his shoulder and dropping a gentle kiss on his head. "It's funny...I kept telling myself that it was so obviously not real because you were so...cuddly, and affectionate. Little did I know..."

He thought Sherlock might laugh, but he simply looked thoughtful instead. "Interesting," he mused. "It may not have been simple wish fulfillment. The subconscious mind is remarkable, it registers input and forms suppositions that the conscious mind resists. Perhaps on some level you were already aware of my feelings..."

Sherlock jolted upright, his shoulder knocking John in the head on the way.

"Oi!" John started, and suddenly then bit back the rest of his words. Sherlock had — that look. Eyes wide, staring at nothing, mouth pursed in that perfect heart-shaped "oh". God, but it was sexy.

"That's it!" Sherlock breathed, those silver eyes focusing on John with a startling intensity. "Your subconscious — your soldier's training, honed in a warzone...it is constantly alert, constantly noticing. How many times have I seen you recognize a threat before even  _I_  have deduced its presence? You call it instinct, but it is the workings of your mind. You have the experience to know where a sniper would be positioned, where the sight lines would be best..."

John looked at Sherlock curiously. "I suppose, but if you want someone to analyze Moran's approach you'd want an expert, not me..."

Sherlock gripped John's shoulders hard. "Don't you see? The surveillance tapes were a dead end because they were focused on  _you_ , as is Moran. We need the opposite. We need  _your_  view of things. Only you would have that knowledge, the assessment of the threat somewhere in your subconscious."

"Sherlock..." John tried to shrug out of Sherlock's uncomfortable grip, and when that had no effect started to pry Sherlock's fingers from his shoulders. "Don't you think I'd tell you if I'd noticed anything? Even a...funny feeling or something?"

"But that's exactly it, John! You haven't noticed it, not consciously. Not yet. But you can — if we make you dream it!"

"What?" John's head snapped up in surprise. " _Dream_  it?"

"Exactly!" Sherlock's voice was elated. "We have to take you back, in your lucid dreams, to the one moment in time when we  _know_  that Moran was there, when we know that he had you in his sights."

John felt the first cold shard of fear, felt it spreading through his chest before his mind had even caught up with Sherlock's words. "No," he found himself saying in reflexive denial.  _"No."_

" _Yes!"_ Sherlock's eyes were bright, an incandescent silver flame in his pale face. "We have to take you back to the moment I fell from the roof of St. Bart's."

The very thought of it made John's stomach turn in revulsion. Deliberately going back, in full vivid experience, to that agonizing moment? With Sherlock to witness his every reaction?

John put his head in his hands. "Bloody buggering  _fuck_."


	25. The Dream

John and Sherlock sat on the bed, John staring into his second bottle of beer while Sherlock stared unblinkingly at John.  

Sherlock had wanted to try the lucid dreaming right away, but John had finally convinced him that as knackered as he had been he would more than likely just pass out after the first beer.  In retrospect, maybe waiting had been a bad idea.  John had been on edge all day thinking about it, dread lying cold and heavy in the pit of his stomach.  Now Sherlock’s avid scrutiny was making it even worse.

“It’s not going to happen right away, you know,” John finally snapped.  “It may not even happen at all.”

“I understand that, John.”  Sherlock’s eyes flicked from John, to the waiting whiskey bottle, and back.  “It is just fascinating...”

“Dammit, Sherlock!”  John’s nerves were stretched almost to the breaking point.  “I am _not_ one of your experiments.  Stop looking at me like — like I’m one of your bags of _ears_ or something.”

He drained the remainder of the beer bottle, faster than he should have, before slamming it down on the bedside cabinet.

“I know.”  Sherlock’s voice was so soft, so unlike his usual confident tones, that John couldn’t help but meet his gaze again.  “This isn’t an experiment, John.  This is our _lives_.”  

Sherlock’s hand reached out to grasp John’s, so tightly it was painful.  “This is us, taking back everything Moriarty stole from us a year ago.”  His voice grew tight with urgency.  “This is me being able to hold you without worrying that you are going to get a bullet in your head.  This is us finding our way _home_ — back to Baker Street, John.”  

Sherlock’s mercurial eyes were a vivid silver-green, staring at John as if willing him to understand.  “I know what I’m asking of you,” he said, his voice hushed again.

John swallowed down the lump of regret in his throat.  He pushed in closer to Sherlock, leaning his head into Sherlock’s chest.  “I’m sorry, love.  I know that this is important.”

Sherlock’s long fingers carded through John’s hair.  “I’ll be right here.  Even if — even if you see me fall again, John, I am still here.  I came back to you.”

John cleared his throat.  He’d be damned if he was going to cry — he was only two beers in, after all, he had no excuse.  “Right,” he said, nodding firmly, trying to pull himself together.  

He reached for the whiskey, and if Sherlock saw the tremor in his hand, he didn’t remark on it.

* * *

“Sh’lock?”

John nestled closer into dream-Sherlock, sighing in happiness.  For some reason it was hard to speak, but it was enough just to be close, enjoying Sherlock’s touch...

“John.  Can you hear me?”

Sherlock’s voice was unusually strident.  “Mmmm,” John slurred.  “Too loud.”

“Excellent.”  John felt a rush of warmth at Sherlock’s praise.  He wasn’t quite sure what Sherlock was praising him for, but that hardly mattered.  He nuzzled in closer, running his hands up Sherlock’s back.

“You’re doing wonderfully, John, keep speaking aloud.  Now, I need you to go somewhere, John.”

Why was he talking again?  There was nowhere else John would rather be.  “Nnnn.  Stay.”

“John, this is important.  We need to go to St. Bart’s.”

John shook his head.  “Not gon’ there.  Kiss m’ ‘gain.”

“John...” Sherlock’s voice sounded amused for a moment, before it became sharp and intent.  “This is important.  I need you to go to St. Bart’s, on the day...on the day that I fell.”

“Nnno...”  John felt panic start to well up inside him.  Why would Sherlock want that?  

“I’m sorry, John, you have to.  Do you remember now?  You left, but when you saw that Mrs. Hudson was all right you came back to St. Bart’s to find me.  You need to do that now — go back, John.”

“Don’ wan’...”

“John!”  Sherlock’s voice was harsh for a moment and John flinched.  Dream-Sherlock wasn’t like this, this was wrong....

He felt a soothing hand in his hair.  “Please, John.”  Sherlock’s voice was soft now, pleading.  “For me.”

 _For Sherlock._  He would do anything for Sherlock.

He concentrated, still holding Sherlock tight, and then suddenly his arms were empty.  He was standing in the street outside St. Bart’s, looking up at Sherlock, his thoughts a riot of confusion and panic.  “Don’ Sh’lock... _don’..._ ”

“You’re there.  Excellent.”  

“Sh’lock...why...”

“Don’t look at me, John.  Don’t look at the rooftop.”

“Y’said...keep m’eyes...fix’d on you...”

“I know what I said.”  Sherlock’s voice was laced with pain.  “You have to listen to what I’m saying _now_.  Look around you, at everyone you see.  We’re looking for the sniper.  Do you remember, John?  We’re looking for Moran.”

Moran.  The name made John shiver, even though he couldn’t quite place it.  Something was so odd.  Sherlock was on the rooftop, wasn’t he?  But the voice wasn’t coming from the phone in his ear.  John twitched, a flash of bright light blinding him for a moment.

“No, John.”  A gentle hand covered his eyes.  “Keep your eyes closed.  You’re safe.  You’re with me.  You need to stay...where you are.”  John felt his body relax a bit at the warm touch.

“I know this is difficult, John, but you have to do this.  It’s very important.  Someone is watching us.  Someone who wants to harm us.”

John felt something, a glimmer of memory.   _He looked at you through a rifle scope, John..._

“M’ran.”

“That’s right.  Moran.  He’s here, somewhere, John.  You may not be able to see him now, but he’s watching us.  He’s in a position to shoot you if I don’t jump, so he has to have a clear line of sight to us both.  He didn’t have much time, he had to follow you back from Baker Street.  Where would he be, John?”

John looked around, at the buildings, the windows.  Someone coming from behind him, following his cab, and then getting a sniper rifle into position, in a hurry.  A clear shot to himself, where he was standing, with a secondary line of sight to Sherlock... _Sherlock_ , on the roof.  Against his will John’s eyes darted upwards and caught, paralyzed with dread, as Sherlock carelessly cast aside his mobile, balancing on the ledge.

“Sh’lock...don’ do’it.  Don’ leav’me...”

“Concentrate, John.  Not on me.  On Moran.  I won’t leave you, John, but you have to think. _Think!”_

John reluctantly dragged his eyes from Sherlock.  A sniper in a rush, so no time to break into a secured apartment or office.  Stairwell, then.  Within a thousand metres for optimal accuracy, trying to avoid sun glare...

“Listen very closely, John.  This is vital.  Look all around you.  Look at all the people.”

John looked at the sparse crowd of individuals.  Some still going about their daily business, others stopped to look up at the roof.  The roof...John steadfastly kept his gaze on the ground level, sweeping the neighboring buildings to look for anything important...the glimmer of sunlight off a scope, a flash of movement where there shouldn’t be any...

“‘kay...”

“Now, John, remove all the women.  They don’t exist.  Just the men.”  

John started as the crowd thinned by a good half.  That was actually...pretty amazing.  Like something out of _The Matrix._  

“‘kay...”

“Now the men.  Moran is in his 40’s or early 50’s.  Just to be safe, eliminate anyone younger than twenty and older than sixty.  Can you do that, John?”

“Yeah.”  It took some concentration, but now only a few individuals remained.

“Good, John.  Excellent.  Now this is the difficult part.  Are you ready?”

 _Now_ was the difficult part?  John steeled himself.  “Mmmhuh.”

“I’m going to jump, John.”

“Nnnno.”  John shifted, craning his head back up to the rooftop, squinting his eyes against the glare of the autumn sun.  “Don’, Sh’lock.  Nnno.  Love... _love you._  Don’ jmp. _Please._ ”

“I have to, John, but it will be all right.  I promise you.  I’m not leaving you.  Don’t look at me while I do it, John.  Look at the crowd.  Everyone, all around you.  While I jump, whlie they take me away.  You were in shock, John, but you saw everything, you always do.  Remember what we’re looking for.  A man, in his 40’s or 50’s.  Watch all the buildings, all the passersby.  He’s going to leave the scene, John and you’ll see him.  I know you can do this.  You’ll know him when you see him.”

“How...?”

“You’re observant, John, much more than I give you credit for.  A military man, a sniper?  You’ll see it on him.  Look for his hands, his eyes, the set of his shoulders.  Weathered skin, permanent tan.  South African by birth but able to blend in.  Someone cruel, someone accustomed to physical force.  Maybe he’s got the rifle with him in some kind of bag, maybe he stashed it and returned for it later, but you’ll know him John.  I know you will.  Are you ready?”

Christ, no, he wasn’t ready.   _I’m going to jump, John._ How would he ever be ready for that?  

John squeezed his eyes, tight, pushing away the confusion and panic.  He hadn’t ever been able to stop Sherlock from jumping, but this time he didn’t have to stand helplessly by.  He had a mission, a request from Sherlock, and he’d be damned if he didn’t complete it.

“M’ready.”

“Good, John.  Here we go.”  John heard remembered fear in Sherlock’s voice as well.  “I’m jumping now.  Falling.”

John’s stomach was heaving but he kept his eyes on the crowd.  A few people came out of the buildings, more passersby stopping, some screaming, some just watching with mouths agape.  He heard the sickening crunch as Sherlock hit the pavement.  He knew what he would see if he looked, those beautiful eyes blank and sightness, red-black blood streaking the pale face as a pool of it spread through those ebony curls...

He kept his eyes on the crowd, on the buildings.  Up there...was that an open window?  Just half of a stairwell window, pushed ajar...

“Don’ see...”

“Keep looking, John.  It will take him a moment.  He’ll want to confirm...see that I’m gone.  He’ll have to break down the rifle.  You are trying to get to me, but they pull you away.  They sit you down, but you push them away.  You can still see everything, John.”

John concentrated, scanning.  A flicker of movement, and...oh.   _There._  Just as Sherlock said, it was unmistakeable.  The steady hands, the sharp eye.  The set of a military man, but with cruelty in the turn of his mouth.  Walking casually but quickly, not even stopping for a moment to take in the bloody scene, a nondescript black duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

“See...see’m.”

“Excellent, John!”  John could hear the excitement in Sherlock’s voice.  “Hold him in place.”  The figure stopped, as if suddenly frozen.  “Look at everything about him, John.  What he’s wearing, his shoes, his watch, anything he’s carrying.  But most of all his face.  Look at his face, John, remember everything about it.  Everything.  It is the key to finding him.”

“Seee...seen...”

“Yes, John.  Keep seeing him.”  Sherlock sounded distracted now.  “We’ll need a sketch artist, I suppose, or an identikit...”

“Nnnno.”  Sherlock wasn’t getting it.  John struggled, pushing the words out with all his force.  “See...seen’m before.”

“What?”  Sherlock’s voice was blank with surprise.  “Around Baker Street?  He had likely been surveilling us for awhile...”

“Nnnno.  Long’go.  Can’t ‘member...”

“Think, John!”

John made a noise of frustration, and Sherlock’s voice gentled.  “It’s okay, John.  Look at his face.  Just his face.  When you saw it before...tell me anything you can.  Scents, sounds...anything.”

“Al’cl...”

“Alcohol?  A bar?  Did you meet him at University...”

“Nnnn.  R’bbng al’cl.  Phenol.  Inf’ction.  Gangrene.”

“Good, John.  Excellent.  A hospital.  St. Bart’s?  During your training?”

“Nnn.  Hear...’Mericans.  Pashto.  Dari.”

“Afghanistan.  But...not your regular posting.  A hospital that treats civilians.  Staffed by Americans.”  Sherlock seemed to be muttering to himself now.  “Think, dammit...think...”

John stared at the face in front of him.  He tried to imagine it in hospital bed, injured.  No, that didn’t seem right.  Posing as a staff member?  John tried to imagine the man in scrubs, or a uniform.  Not scrubs, but the uniform...

“Oh!”  Sherlock’s voice cut into his concentration.  “Kandahar airfield, the NATO hospital!  Did you visit?”

God, Sherlock was brilliant as always.  John had almost forgotten.  A three-day training by a neurosurgeon there on in-field stabilization of battlefield injuries and decompressive craniotomy, but John had also accompanied the attendings on rounds.

Suddenly, clear as if he were there, John saw the man — Moran — slumped in a blue vinyl visitor’s chair, straightening to full awareness the second they entered the room.  His head clean-shaven, his eyebrows so light as to be almost invisible, emphasizing the deep furrows in his brow.  And those eyes, light green and piercing above the firm-set mouth and square chin.  

He was wearing a uniform, but not South African...John had a sudden memory of trying to bite back a smile.  A beaver, of all things, in the insignia on the man’s cap.  Canadian civil engineering service.  Two employees injured by an IED in Chora, one only superficially, the other quite seriously.  This man stayed long enough to hear the poor prognosis of the other, and was gone the next day.

John tried to think back.  They had walked into the room.  John was looking at the patient’s chart and vitals, but the attending had extended his hand to the visitor.  He had said his name...what was it...what was it...

Sherlock was talking again but John tuned out even his voice.  He took himself back again, to the door.  The smell of the hospital, the woosh of the ventilator from the bed, the click of the attending’s shoes...

_“Major Pepin, let me update you on your colleague’s condition.  Unfortunately the concussive injury sustained...”_

“Sh’lock.”  John tried to fix the alias and face in his memory.  “Sh’lock...alias.  M’jr Pepin.  C’nadian.”

“What?  A — a name?  John, that’s incredible.  Documentation, even if forged, would get us a picture for facial recognition...”  Sherlock was babbling on, but John wasn’t listening anymore.  He had done his task, and now he wanted to be away from all of it — no more Kandahar, no more St. Bart’s.

“John?  You can wake up now, John.”

“Nnnn.  Baker Street.  C’mere, love.  Back t’me.”

John felt his warmth all along his body now.  Sherlock was back into his arms, the two of them crammed into the sofa on Baker Street, his body half-draped over Sherlock’s languid form.  John sighed in relief, nuzzling into Sherlock’s neck.  He felt Sherlock’s hand in his hair, soothing him.

“Yes, all right, John.  We’re at Baker Street.  Everything has been fixed now.”  Sherlock’s voice was soft and wistful.  “We’re home.”

John hummed in satisfaction, kissing the hollow of Sherlock’s throat.  “Love you.”

“Yes, John.  Sleep now.”  John felt himself drifting away, and then Sherlock spoke again, so quietly he almost could have imagined it.  “I love you too.”


	26. The Conference

John leaned in close. The pub had mostly emptied out at this time of night, and yet John's voice when he spoke was so overly loud as to make Greg wince.

"Greg. You're a good mate, Greg. Have I ever told y'that?" John reached out to slap Lestrade on the back, his hand falling a little off-target to jostle his shoulder, sending beer sloshing over the edge of Greg's pint glass.

Irritation flashed across Greg's face for just a moment before settling into amused tolerance. "Yeah, mate. About five minutes ago. Let's call it a night after this one, yeah?"

"I'm fine. I'm fiiiine." John's head drooped just a little before he yanked it back up. "Only had uh...five? Shix, maybe?"

"Christ, John, you must have refilled while I was in the gents. This is only my third. That's  _definitely_  enough for you then, mate."

"You look out for me, Greg." John giggled. "You're a looker-outer."

"And on that note..." Greg drained the rest of his pint and threw a few bills on the table. "I'll walk you home. Just down the street, innit?"

"Very, very, closhe. Close." John let himself be pulled to his feet, his gait only slightly unsteady before Greg slung a bracing arm around his shoulders, guiding him to the door.

* * *

"Bloody hell, these're a lot of stairs," Lestrade groused as they finally made the fourth floor landing. "This one, is it?" he asked, gesturing to John's door. "Here, give me the keys, I'll get it open for you."

Just as Lestrade turned the key in the lock, John placed a hand on his shoulder. "Stay calm, Greg," he said, low and soft in his ear.

"What?" John saw Greg's eyes sharpen at his distinctly sober tone, but he didn't give him time to think, crowding him through the door and shutting and locking it behind them.

"Mycroft?" Greg's eyes took in the figure seated in the only chair. There was movement in the kitchen doorway and before John could react Greg was in motion. Two swift steps and he didn't even break his stride to deliver the punch, a solid right hook to Sherlock's cheekbone that knocked him to the ground.

"You...you...bloody  _bastard_ ," Greg was spitting.

John cautiously eased between them, careful not to move too suddenly. "Easy, Greg. Take it easy, yeah? We've got a lot to explain."

"Bloody right you do!" The shock seemed to be setting in now, and it was John's turn to ease an arm around Greg's shoulders, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Just take a few deep breaths, okay? It's a shock." John could tell his own smile was probably a little bitter. "Trust me, I know."

"Fucking  _hell_ , John." Greg sounded more lost than angry now. "What he put you through..." Greg's head suddenly snapped up, his brown eyes cold. "Or did you know this whole time?"

John suddenly had the feeling of what it would be like to be trapped in an interrogation room with Lestrade, and it wasn't pleasant at all. "I didn't," he said firmly. "I found out a little over two weeks ago. And I promise, he had good reasons for what he did. Just...take a moment and breathe. I'll put the tea on and we'll talk it through, okay?"

"Why are you coddling him, John?  _I'm_  the one he punched!" Sherlock huffed from the kitchen doorway.

"Bloody right, and I'm damn tempted to do it a second time," Greg snapped without even looking up from where he sat hunched over his knees, his head between his hands.

Hand pressed to his cheek, Sherlock turned his wide-eyed, indignant look to John, and John had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing.

"I told you to stay out of sight until I had the chance to warn him," he said pragmatically. "You're lucky he didn't shoot you."

"Anthea needed the loo!" Sherlock said in such a wounded tone that John couldn't help but chuckle.

He was so tempted to kiss Sherlock in apology, but one more shock right now might be more than Lestrade could handle. He stopped in front of Sherlock in the kitchen doorway. With his right hand he pressed gently on Sherlock's cheekbone to check for any fractures. Out of sight from the others in the room, his left hand squeezed reassuringly at Sherlock's waist.

"I'll get you ice for that," he said, his left thumb swirling teasingly to dip inside the waistband of Sherlock's trousers, pressing warmth through the thin silk of Sherlock's dress shirt. Sherlock hummed agreement, his mood appearing much improved.

"Who the bloody hell is Anthea?" John heard Lestrade say plaintively as he put the kettle on and pulled an icepack from the freezer.

By the time tea was ready Anthea had emerged from the en suite and introductions had been made all around. Greg looked much recovered, although John cynically wondered whether the presence of a beautiful woman like Anthea had expedited that process considerably. Not that Anthea seemed to have eyes for anyone but her Blackberry, of course.

Sherlock had seated himself on the bed a good distance away from Greg, although Greg was still shooting him wary glances out of the corner of his eye. John passed the tea around. Fortunately he had just done the washing up; he was hardly used to entertaining company at his flat and five mugs was all that he had.

After introductions the others had fallen into eying each other silently. Apparently John had been appointed master of ceremonies for this little get-together. He took a sip of tea, leaned back against the desk, and dove right in.

"Sorry for the..." he waved a hand indistinctly "...subterfuge, but we have reason to believe that I am under surveillance. I needed a way to have you to the flat without arousing too much suspicion. As a result, we'll need to keep this brief as well. Mycroft will be in touch with you to arrange any further details."

Lestrade looked every inch the copper, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Details of what exactly."

Sherlock smiled grimly. "Details of my resurrection."

* * *

"Bloody hell," Lestrade repeated, his head in his hands again. Finally he raised his head. He seemed to have latched onto John as the only voice of sanity in the room. "Are you sure about this?"

"No," John said frankly, ignoring the derisive noise from Sherlock's quarter. "In fact I was very much against it at the start. But we've been over it and over it, and I can't think of any alternative. Moran is going to find out that Sherlock is alive sooner or later. At least this way the moment, and the venue, are of our choosing. It gives us some measure of control."

Lestrade was still shaking his head. He held up the picture of Moran from the dossier Mycroft had handed around, the forged identification of a Major Alain Pépin of the 5 Combat Engineer Division, based out of Valcartier, Quebec.

"So you just let this man, an expert sniper, take pot-shots at Sherlock? That's your clever solution?"

"I know how it sounds." John ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "We've been monitoring the CCTV ever since we identified his alias and got the photograph. We've run facial recognition algorithms on every camera in London. If he's here, he's staying out of sight. We have to draw him out. He's waiting for confirmation that Sherlock is alive. If a press conference announcing his return doesn't do that, nothing will."

Mycroft finally spoke up, his words slow and judicious. "The operation will be planned out meticulously, and I will be overseeing it personally from on-site. We have chosen the location. We can establish an airtight perimeter, secure every neighboring building, and ensure that there is no possible clear shot to where Sherlock will be standing. When Moran approaches, we will identify and apprehend him before he gets anywhere near Sherlock."

Sherlock jumped to his feet and began pacing. "He doesn't even  _want_  me," he snapped. "Everything I have learned about him, everything about his psychology, tells me that it is  _John_  who will be his true target. Killing from a distance is his profession, but this is personal. And when it is personal, he prefers to be up close. A quick death for either of us would bring him no satisfaction. I took Moriarty from him, and he wants to take John from me."

Sherlock suddenly crouched in front of Lestrade, his silver-blue eyes pinning Lestrade's as his voice turned low and harsh with emotion. "He wants to torture, to take his time. He wants to hear the screams, to taste the blood and smell the fear. And he wants me there when he does it."

"Jesus Christ." Greg's face was pale and drawn, but resolute. He nodded once, decisively. His eyes flicked from Sherlock to Mycroft. "God knows you two are the geniuses, so if this is the way you want to play it, you give me my lines and I'll do my part. But I hope to hell you know what you're doing."

John broke in before Sherlock could say anything damaging. "He has the advantage right now. He can strike at any time, in any place. At least this will allow us to control the situation. It worked for Sherlock when he faced Moriarty."

Lestrade's mouth twisted bitterly. "A swan dive off St. Bart's, leaving you a complete wreck? If that's your idea of a plan working, mate, I'd hate to see things go wrong."

John saw anger flash across Sherlock's face and placed a quelling hand on his shoulder. "We're all still alive, Greg. You, me, Mrs. Hudson. All of us had a bullet with our name on it, if Sherlock didn't jump. He saved us all, and himself too. That's the best we're hoping for here."

Lestrade looked like he had been punched in the gut. His eyes lifted to Sherlock in question, but Sherlock was already turning away.

"Day after tomorrow, on the steps of St. Bart's. Mycroft will arrange everything. The podium will be blocked on three sides, and all lines of sight will be secured. John and I will already be safely inside before the announcement even goes out. Molly has a couch in her office, we'll spend the night there. The press release will go out tomorrow indicating that an announcement will be made regarding Sherlock Holmes. Moran will come to us like a mouse to cheese, and all you have to do is stand by me and make a statement regarding my triumphant return. Can you do that, Lest—...Greg?"

Greg's eyes narrowed at the deliberate use of his first name. Finally he stood. He held his hand out to Sherlock, who took it cautiously. Greg shook Sherlock's hand solemnly. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah. I can do that."

"Get some rest, Greg," John said. "The press release will be on your desk for distribution by noon tomorrow. With any luck, in a few days this'll all be behind us."

Greg nodded. "Cheers to that." He gave a nod to the others. "Mycroft. Anthea, pleasure to meet you." He turned to Sherlock again, eyes scanning him as if still disbelieving of his presence, before suddenly cracking a grin. "For what it's worth, I'm glad to see you again. And not just for John's sake."

John saw the surprise on Sherlock's face, the tentative curl to his mouth, but he simply nodded.

"Right. I'm off. John, next round's on you."

Greg left, shutting the door carefully behind them.

"By all means, feel free to take your leave as well, Mycroft," Sherlock sniped, ignoring the chastising look John was directing at him. "I expect you have some overly-elaborate plan for unseen extraction that involves diversion of surveillance satellites and other egregious wastes of government resources?"

"What he  _means_ ," John said forcefully, "is thank you very much for all your assistance in this, Mycroft. We could not accomplish it without you, and we are very grateful."

Sherlock's petulant expression was rivaled only by Mycroft's barely-concealed smugness. "You are very welcome."

"Sir," Anthea cued, holding up her Blackberry.

"Yes. Well." Mycroft fussily gathered up his coat and umbrella. "I believe there will be a minor accident involving a delivery truck outside your front door in approximately five minutes, so we must make our farewells."

Anthea slipped through the door, but Mycroft turned at the last minute. "I do wish the best of luck. To both of you," he said gravely.

John started to reply but Sherlock stepped behind him, pulling John back against his chest in an unusually demonstrative manner, arms wrapped around his chest. "I cannot rely on luck, Mycroft. Not for this," he said, the petty needling tone he usually adopted with Mycroft completely gone now, his voice low and serious. "Do your part to see that we do not need it."

Mycroft's eyes examined them both briefly, and then he nodded. Without another word, he turned and left.

John turned in Sherlock's arms, pressing his face into the damp curve of Sherlock's neck. "And what was that about?"

Sherlock's arms tightened around John again. "Just making sure that Mycroft knows what is of the utmost importance here."

"Meaning...?"

" _You_ , John. Whatever happens at the press conference, Mycroft will ensure that you are safe."

"Dammit, Sherlock. I'll be lurking inside, under heavy guard.  _I'm_ not the one playing bait here, standing on a bloody stage in front of a pack of journalists and a bloody sniper. On the very spot, no less, where...where you..."

John couldn't even say the words. He pressed his face into Sherlock's skin, trying to take steadying breaths.

"All will be well, John," Sherlock said softly.

"I know. It will be." John was tired...tired of plans and schemes and the constant pressure of knowing Moran was out there. He just wanted to forget for awhile, to get lost in Sherlock. Slowly, deliberately he bit Sherlock's collarbone, smiling at Sherlock's indrawn breath and reflexive shudder.

"Tomorrow night is Molly's couch and SIS guards. Tonight is just us and a bed. Let's make it count."


	27. The Event

At 11:37 a.m. exactly, as a truck blocked the view of the alleyway, John slid out the side door of the surgery and into the waiting black sedan.

Sherlock was already in the car as expected, but to John's surprise someone else occupied the bench seat opposite.

"Er, hullo Mycroft," he managed.

"Just thought I'd see you both settled personally," Mycroft intoned with a thin smile, umbrella clasped primly between his folded hands.

"That's...kind of you?" John said, unable to completely squelch the dubiousness from his tone. He sneaked a look at Sherlock, who simply responded with an elaborate shrug. The stiffness in his spine and the petulant set of his mouth told John that he had been unable to deduce Mycroft's motives as well.

As the sedan snaked through traffic to St. Bart's, Mycroft insisted on reviewing the details of the press conference one more time. Sherlock made a big show of not listening at all, while John listened intently, despite knowing every detail already. Not that there was much to do on his part except to stay out of sight and under guard until it was all over.

It was damned frustrating. Everyone else would have a role to play — Sherlock and Lestrade making a public appearance to draw Moran in, Mycroft monitoring the operation from the sham news van at the perimeter. Even Anthea would be in the field, coordinating the SIS agents and liaisoning with the Met, who aside from Lestrade were completely unaware of the true purpose for the press conference. All John could do was hide behind some SIS muscle, just waiting for it all to be over. If he were lucky, maybe he would get to watch the conference on a telly. Logical as it was to keep himself hidden away if he were Moran's true target, it still rankled.

Lost in his bitter musings, he realized they were at St. Bart's before he knew it. His hand rested lighly on the butt of his firearm — this next bit would be potentially the most vulnerable point — but they slid uneventfully in through the side door, making their way through deserted hallways towards Molly's office. Logically John knew that this part of the hospital had already been secured by Mycroft's minions with "under construction" blockades and agents in scrubs and construction gear patrolling the perimeter, but it was still eerie how quiet and deserted the familiar hallways were, making the squeak of their shoes and the tap of Mycroft's umbrella resonate in the empty hall.

John had only seen Molly's office a few times. As if to compensate her for the amount of time spent in the dank basement morgue, her office was surprisingly spacious and sunny, pleasantly but not opressively cluttered, and smelling of tea and slightly dusty plants. As a base of operations, it could have been worse.

Sherlock took three paces into the room and froze. John had never seen him look so surprised, and John had the all-too-familiar sensation of having missed something important.

Sherlock wheeled around, eyes wide as he stared at Mycroft, before the silver depths turned dismissive and cold. Sherlock wrinkled his nose derisively. "Well, I suppose if you maintain a hectic schedule, having someone so simperingly at your beck and call might be remarkably convenient..."

John's hand reflexively flew to the grip of his gun as sheer rage flashed across Mycroft's face for a moment. His hands tightened white-knuckled on the umbrella as he took a step forward, and John's joking speculation that Mycroft kept a blade hidden in the handle suddenly seemed shockingly plausible.

Mycroft seemed to catch himself suddenly, his face and body lapsing back into his typically composed posture as he carefully set the ferrule of the umbrella back to the ground. John looked at Sherlock, baffled. The coldness had disappeared from his eyes, his body relaxed and his lip curling with genuine amusement. "Good," he said, and Mycroft answered with a careful inclination of his head.

"Oh for Christ's sake," John finally sputtered in frustration.  _"What?"_

Mycroft seemed to be making a careful study of the cat-themed watercolor on Molly's wall, and if it had been anyone else John might have believed that a slight blush had pinkened his cheeks. Sherlock arranged himself indolently on the couch, his eyes bright with mischief. "I believe my brother has developed a  _tendre_  for Dr. Hooper. Which seems, even more improbably, to be returned in kind."

"Molly?" John looked at Mycroft again, half-expecting it to be a joke, but was met with judicious silence. He looked back at Sherlock. "...and  _him?"_

Sherlock waved a careless hand. "Look around the office, John, it's obvious. They met after...the incident here at St. Bart's, I am sure that Mycroft soon realized Molly's role in my ruse. I have been informed that shared confidences often form a bond between individuals, although I will admit that I had previously thought Mycroft immune to such sentiments."

Now that the shock had faded John found himself quite absurdly pleased at the thought. He had always felt a sort of hapless empathy for Molly, the both of them so bedazzled in Sherlock's presence even if John managed to hide it slightly better. And he really did believe that Mycroft had the capacity to care for someone as deeply as Molly deserved. He replayed the largely nonverbal confrontation between the brothers and found his mouth twitching as he tried to suppress his grin.

"Sherlock," he said carefully. "Did you just ask your brother...about his intentions regarding Molly?"

Sherlock immediately looked disconcerted, and John's smile broke free.

"Molly was quite remarkably helpful to me," Sherlock said stiffly, bristling at John's amusement. "I would not have survived the fall without her assistance. I would dislike it if her loyalty to me were repaid with...unpleasantness."

Sherlock's mouth softened as his eyes met Mycroft's. "I found Molly to be remarkably quick-witted, and much more perceptive than I had previously credited," he said seriously.

John saw Mycroft flush slightly with pleasure at Sherlock's praise, belying his facade of indifference. "She...has a good heart," he finally admitted, almost shyly.

"Well," John said into the following awkward silence. "I suppose that's a brother's blessing, then. Let us know the wedding date, we'll buy you a fish-slice." He clapped Mycroft on the shoulder, largely because he knew it was likely to annoy him, and was rewarded with a sour look from both Holmes brothers.

"I will take my leave now," Mycroft said primly. "I will alert the SIS personnel that you have arrived. They will station themselves outside the door, so do not be alarmed. I wish you both well tomorrow. I will inform you the moment that Moran has been apprehended."

The door closed softly behind him. John sat on the couch next to Sherlock, who promptly flopped over to put his head in John's lap, draping his long legs over the arm of the sofa.

John smiled down at him, running a hand through the curly hair. "So. Mycroft and Molly. It makes a weird kind of sense."

"Please, John, must we really discuss it further? I do not need any...visual imagery," Sherlock said, closing his eyes with a shudder.

"I just find it...interesting." This unexpected little bit of happiness in the midst of all the tension had John almost giddy, and he couldn't resist teasing Sherlock about it a bit. "That's three times over the last few weeks that you've seen Mycroft, and yet somehow you never managed to deduce it from  _him_."

Sherlock cracked his eyes open just enough to shoot John a death-glare. "Oh,  _do_  shut up."

* * *

"It's all ready out there. Sherlock?" Lestrade stood in the doorway, casting the occasional edgy glance at the two SIS agents flanking each side.

"Yes. I'm ready." Sherlock cast an unconvincing smile in John's direction, stopping his nervous pacing to move towards the door.

John stepped in front of him. "Just...give us a minute, will you, Greg?" he asked without turning around.

"Sure. Yeah." Greg's voice was subdued, and John realized that Greg might know a little more than he thought about how things were between him and Sherlock now. John heard the door close softly, but he kept his eyes on Sherlock.

They each took a step closer and then suddenly John was in Sherlock's arms. He held Sherlock so tightly his arms ached, feeling the unfamiliar bulk of the bulletproof vest underneath Sherlock's shirt and jacket and trying not to think about what it meant.

"John," Sherlock warned.

"I know," John said. "It's just...bloody  _hell_ , Sherlock." He pressed his forehead into Sherlock's chest, all the doubts and fears regarding this ridiculous plan of theirs suddenly seeming overwhelming. Moran could have made it past the perimeter. All it would take was one shot to the head and Sherlock would be gone. All that brilliance, everything in the world that John cared about, and this might be their last moment together.

As if sensing the vicious turn his thoughts had taken, Sherlock reached up, pulling back sharply on John's hair. Then his mouth crashed into John's, rough and messy, a ravenous slide of teeth and tongue. A harsh, choked noise escaped John and then he was kissing Sherlock back, hot and fierce and needy. Sherlock was the one to finally pull away, stepping back out of John's arms, his breath ragged and uneven. He ran the back of his hand across his red, kiss-swollen lips, and John numbly smoothed the wrinkled lapels of his jacket down over the stiff vest.

"It'll be fine, John," Sherlock said firmly.

"Yes. Of course it will," John said, trying to pull himself together. "Go on now." He smiled hollowly. "Don't let them make you wear the hat."

"Yes. Well." Sherlock lingered awkwardly for a moment, and then suddenly turned. He pulled the door open, startling Lestrade who was lurking outside, and strode down the hallway without another word.

John nodded to the impassive SIS guards and pulled the door shut, only then allowing himself to take in a deep, shuddering breath. His mouth was throbbing, his scalp still stinging from the pull of Sherlock's hand in his hair, and he wished that the sensations would never fade, that he would feel Sherlock's touch on him forever. He let the breath out in a sigh.

He sat down on the couch, facing the door, placing his gun carefully within easy reach. Then he pulled out his mobile, which Sherlock had set to stream the news feed from the press conference, and settled in to wait.

* * *

"So...er...we'll take a few questions now..."

Eyes locked on the tiny screen of his smartphone, his stomach tied in knots, John watched a harried-looking Lestrade bringing the press conference to a close. Christ, something had gone wrong, horribly wrong. There's no way Moran wouldn't have been in place by now. If they didn't have him yet it meant he hadn't come. Or even worse, that he had managed to slip by, and might even now have Sherlock in his sights.

Every muscle in John's body was locked with tension, a cold sweat prickling down his spine. He wanted nothing more than to push past his guards, storm onto the podium, and tackle Sherlock to the ground. Instead he sat, teeth clenched so tightly his jaw was aching, and watched Sherlock on the screen of his phone. He stood tall and aloof, his purring voice cutting journalists to shreds for their vapid questions, looking as if he could barely be arsed to care what they thought of his answers.

Finally Lestrade called a halt to the questions. The streaming feed switched from the view of the podium to a newsreader behind a desk. John lurched to his feet, pacing impatiently until he heard the rapid drumbeat of feet coming down the hall.

Lestrade and Sherlock burst through the door.

"John...any word from Mycroft?" Lestrade asked tersely. He barely waited for John's shake of the head before stepping back into the hall, barking orders into his radio.

John looked at Sherlock. He had dropped the careless facade he had adopted during the press conference; his face was pale now, his mouth set in a grim line.

"What does this mean?" John asked him. "What now?"

Without a word Sherlock stripped off his jacket, and then began pulling at the buttons of his shirt. John watched in confusion until Sherlock got down to the bulletproof vest. John realized Sherlock's breath was growing rapid and panicky, his hands clawing desperately at the tapes, struggling to free himself.

In a swift movement John was in front of him, catching Sherlock's wrists to still them before efficiently unfastening the vest himself, pulling it over Sherlock's head as Sherlock fought free of the heavy weight of it. Sherlock flung the vest across the room with a snarled curse.

"Sherlock..." John's hand cupped Sherlock's cheek, trying to soothe.

"I don't know," Sherlock finally said, his voice cracking over the words. "This was supposed to work. I don't know what to do next."

John pulled Sherlock in, arms winding around Sherlock's waist. "We'll find a way," he said. "We..."

The buzz of John's mobile startled them both, making them jump apart. John pulled it from where he had absently stowed it in the back pocket of his jeans. He held it up for Sherlock to see as Mycroft's name flashed across the caller ID screen.

Sherlock snatched the mobile, jabbing at the speaker icon.  _"Do you have him?"_  he barked. "I swear it, Mycroft, if you have bollixed this up..."

An unfamiliar voice cut through Sherlock's ranting. "Now, now, Mr. Holmes. Is that any way to speak to your flesh and blood?" The voice was slightly accented, sounding coldly amused.

Sherlock's face was deadly calm now, his silver eyes as sharp as blades.  _"Moran,"_ he said.

"At your service," the man with Mycroft's mobile replied.


	28. The Call

Sherlock's face was deadly calm now, his silver eyes as sharp as blades.  _"Moran,"_ he said.

"At your service," the voice on Mycroft's mobile replied. "Now, are you and the good doctor alone, or shall I call back later? After all, Mycroft and I have nothing but time at our disposal." The voice was mildly accented, the clipped vowels and harsh consonants adding an extra layer of mockery to Moran's tone.

Sherlock gestured to the door with his chin and John moved almost automatically, clicking the lock into place. "What do you hope to accomplish by taking Mycroft?" Sherlock asked stonily.

"I am only giving you what you hoped for, Mr. Holmes. A chance to meet. That is what that circus today was about, wasn't it? At least that's what my source within MI-6 told me."

Sherlock's hand tightened on the mobile as a sound of inarticulate rage escaped him.

"Oh, yes," Moran continued. "I have a little birdie in MI-6 and one at the Metropolitan Police as well, so do understand that if you seek help from those organizations I shall know, and your brother shall pay the price. Next time it will be just us, Mr. Holmes, as it should have been from the start."

"You want me to meet with you, then? To come to my death, with only my brother as collateral, so that you can kill us both? I'm afraid you've been misinformed as to our relationship." Sherlock's face was set and pale, but his tone of voice was flawlessly insouciant. "Shoot him if you like, he is nothing but an annoyance to me."

John drew in a sharp breath and Sherlock's eyes narrowed at him in warning.

Moran only chuckled. "Really, Mr. Holmes, do you think there is anything about you that I don't know? You'll come, and what's more you'll bring your doctor with you."

" _No."_ The single word was explosive with emotion as Sherlock's eyes flew up to John's face.

"Come now, Mr. Holmes. He's such a faithful pet, he'd only follow you anyway. There is a cafe nearby, I will text you the address. Lose your minders and a car will pick you both up there in an hour. I can't give you time to scheme, after all."

"Why in the  _bloody hell_ would I do that?" Sherlock's control was slipping, John could see it. He stepped nearer, placing a steadying hand on Sherlock's bare shoulder.

"I want to meet you and the doctor, Mr. Holmes — face to face, as men should. And you'll do it, because you think that you are smarter than me, that you'll manage to outwit me somehow." Moran's voice had lost its casual tone, a manic edge creeping in. "You and Jim were quite a pair, weren't you? All your plans, and ideas. It was never enough to just..."

Moran suddenly cut off his words, as if realizing that he was revealing himself. He breathed heavily for a moment before resuming in a calmer tone. "In any case, you'll take this chance. Because if you don't, I'll kill your brother now, and then some time in the next few days I'll put a bullet in Doctor Watson's head from a thousand yards away."

Sherlock made an involuntary choked noise, his pale eyes wide and haunted as he looked at John. "I'll leave you alive, of course," Moran continued, his voice oily with sham good humor. "For awhile, at least. Long enough to savor the full measure of your grief, and then I'll put a bullet in your head too. Can you really doubt me, after what has occurred today?"

The room was silent, John watching helplessly as Sherlock struggled with emotion, eyes darting frantically as if he would find the answer somewhere in the room.

"No, you understand the position you're in. Your ego would not let the opportunity to face me go by."

"I'll come alone," Sherlock said finally, his voice hoarse with emotion. "I'm the one you want, the one who was there when Moriarty died. I'll not risk John."

Moran tutted chidingly. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Holmes. It is both of you that I want, and both of you that I shall have. You have one hour."

Sherlock's face was devastated, the hand that held the mobile shaking. He looked at John helplessly, as if John was already dead. As if they both were.

John took a deep breath, steadying Sherlock's hand with his own. "We'll be there," he said curtly into the phone, pressing his thumb to the button to end the call.

Sherlock stood numbly as John forced himself into action, gathering Sherlock's shirt and jacket. He started forcing Sherlock's lax arms into his shirtsleeves.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice hollow.

John doggedly began doing up Sherlock's buttons. "I know. But it's a fighting chance, and so we'll take it, yeah? He's right, we can't do anything else."

"We can't just...stop it, John!" Sherlock's hands squeezed John's tightly, holding them still. "The only reason he's doing this is because he doesn't want us to die easily. He wants us to suffer for Moriarty. He wants to kill us slowly and painfully, but he  _will_  kill us, all of us."

"I know!" John's voice was too sharp, making Sherlock flinch. "I know," John repeated, softly this time. He shook his hands free of Sherlock's tight grip, continuing down the placket, buttoning Sherlock up. "But you'll think of something. You always do. The only way through is forward, and right now we have to focus on getting past every member of MI-6 and the Met who stands between us and the exit. We have to get to that cafe, Sherlock. Now can you get us there?"

"John..."

John's voice was harsh now. "I asked you a question, Sherlock.  _Can you get us there?"_

The dazed look faded somewhat from Sherlock's eyes. "Yes," he said, somewhat unsteadily. He seemed to shake himself. "Yes," he repeated, his voice certain now. "I can."

"Good." John clicked the door lock open and cracked the door, peering into the hall. The two guards who had been watching the door had apparently been called away. No doubt Mycroft's disappearance had been discovered, and with any luck they would benefit from the resultant chaos.

He held Sherlock's jacket out to him, watching as he shrugged into it. "Then let's move out."

* * *

John brought two teas over to the small table in the back corner of the cafe. The sound was off on the television, but from time to time footage would flash across the screen of the supposed news van Mycroft had been using as his base of operations. The door was blown off, black singe marks along the edge. The caption "Domestic Terror Attack?!" crawled across the screen in giant letters. As the cashier had pokily prepared the teas John had got a closer look and saw a few seconds of Anthea, directing police officers imperiously with her Blackberry in one hand and a bloody bandage pressed to her forehead with the other.

John sat down and checked his watch. "Twenty-five minutes," he said, handing Sherlock one of the teas.

Sherlock grasped the tea between his palms but didn't drink. He shifted restlessly in the dainty chair, his gangly legs barely fitting under the tiny cafe table. "There has to be something we can do...some advantage we can find." He rolled the teacup between his palms in agitation. "I could fashion some sort of explosive device, or perhaps a topical poison, absorbed through the skin..."

"Sherlock." John's hands wrapped around Sherlock's, feeling the slender fingers ice-cold underneath his palms despite the hot cup Sherlock was holding. "This man is a professional. A mercenary, with extensive military training. He will be in control of the situation from start to finish. If he knows you as well as Moriarty did, then he knows how you think. He will not give you the opportunity to try any tricks. That's why he took Mycroft, and why he only gave us an hour."

Sherlock's expression grew even bleaker, his chin dipping in acknowledgement. Suddenly he jerked his head up again, his gaze calculating. "He's a soldier," he said. "Like you."

John shrugged, but Sherlock was undeterred. "So what would you do?"

John leaned back in his chair, considering the question carefully. "We can only guess at his resources, but Mycroft seemed certain that he had two associates at the most. Maybe the driver of the car as well, so let's say three." Sherlock nodded.

"He's had time to plan," John continued, "So he'll have chosen the location carefully. Isolated, of course, but close to where he had to maintain the surveillance. A short drive from here, but an industrial area."

"Abandoned warehouse," Sherlock sniffed. "How dull."

John couldn't help quirking a smile at that before his expression grew serious again. "He'd make sure we couldn't pull any tricks. At the very least have us searched before we made it in, at worst have us strip. Maybe even incapacitate us before we even caught sight of Moran or Mycroft. Not cuffs, he'd know you can pick those. And not drugs, not if he wants us awake and suffering. Plenty of other options, though — rope if he's experienced enough to use it, which he no doubt is. Wire, zip ties. Even duct tape can do the job, if you're thorough. Hell, the man is a sadist, I'm sure he has plenty of ideas."

John took a sip of his tea, hoping to quiet his churning stomach. "And of course he'll keep Mycroft in jeopardy the whole time. Explosives seem a little fancy for Moran, but he could even just have one of his associates with a gun to Mycroft's head. Enough to make us behave until we don't have a choice anymore." Christ, it sounded hopeless when he laid it out like that.

"He doesn't want a game of wits," Sherlock said, rubbing his forehead with barely-suppressed frustration. "Not like Moriarty, not like Jefferson Hope. He doesn't want to prove how clever he is, he won't give me any chances to win. He just wants to hurt us. The most we can hope for is a moment of carelessness, or of distraction. Something we can turn to our advantage."

They sat in silence for a few moments. John resisted the urge to check his watch again.

" _He wasn't supposed to do this,"_ Sherlock finally expostulated, his voice startlingly loud in the quiet cafe. "It was always about Moran and Moriarty, you and me. Mycroft was never supposed to be a target."

John nodded. It sounded silly, like they had expected a remorseless killer to play fair in some way, but there was no doubt that Moran's move against Mycroft had caught them all by surprise.

"We weren't expecting it, that's for sure." John felt an inkling of a thought, just a small shadow of an idea niggling at the back of his brain. He furrowed his brow, trying to bring it into focus.

"He knows about you," he said slowly. "Everything about you, so he knows what to expect. We need to do something that surprises him, something that he wouldn't expect from you."

John's eyes were drawn back to the television. "I think I have an idea," he said.


	29. The Station

The black car drew up in front of the cafe. John watched as all the nervousness seemed to fall away from Sherlock. With John close behind, Sherlock pulled open the door of the car without hesitation and slid into the back seat as casually as if it were any one of the endless cabs he had summoned himself.

They sat next to each other, silent in the backseat, as the sedan slid through the early evening traffic. The driver made no effort to hide his face, or to obscure where they were headed. John couldn't help himself from cataloguing all the indications that they were not meant to survive this.

John hadn't thought that he could get tenser, but he felt the pressure building in his shoulders, inching up his spine. The soft graze of warmth against the back of his hand almost made him jump. Sherlock was still staring out his window, his face carefully neutral, but his hand had flopped over on the seat between them until the back of his hand was lightly touching the back of John's hand.

John took a deep breath in through his nose and let it out slowly. He tried to force his muscles to relax, focusing on that spot of warmth, the invisible sign of support Sherlock was sending them. This was going to be bad, they both knew it. They just had to get through it, somehow.

The traffic thinned as they drove further. Finally the car turned down a gravel path. A high wire fence surrounded a derelict-looking building with two giant smokestacks. As the driver got out of the car to roll back the wire gate, the smell of the Thames rushed in through his open door.

"Lots Road Power Station," Sherlock murmured to John. "Used to supply the Underground with electricity until it was decommissioned in 2002. They keep saying they are going to turn it into shops and flats, but planning permission keeps falling through."

John nodded. It was a good choice for Moran. Derelict, but with planned redevelopment no one would consider it unusual to see an occasional car about.

The driver pulled the car through the gate, and then closed it behind them. They bumped along an uneven path for awhile before pulling up beside a rusty side door.

The door had been cracked open a bit, and now it opened all the way. A man and a woman stepped out, both of them with guns at the ready, as the driver opened the back door for Sherlock and John.

Sherlock and John climbed out of the car, squinting to make out details in the gathering dusk The deep, pungent smell of the Thames and probably a fair amount of sewage hung heavy in the air.

John saw a flicker of recognition in Sherlock's eyes as he looked over Moran's two mercenaries, but he gave no other sign of having identified them. He stood calmly, arms at his sides and slightly away from his body, as the man held his weapon on them both. The woman began with John, holstering her gun and pulling John's jacket off his shoulders, tossing it on the ground. Without even looking she pulled the Browning from the back of his waistband, ejecting the clip and thumbing the rounds out efficiently before pulling back on the slide to check the chamber. She snapped the slide back and tucked the empty weapon into her own waistband before continuing John's pat-down briskly but meticulously.

John gritted his teeth, standing still under the invasive touch, feeling his defenses being slowly stripped away. She removed every item in his pockets, as well as his watch and belt, throwing them in a small heap on top of John's jacket. "Shoes," she said, in a curt accent John couldn't place but was sure Sherlock had pegged down to the village, and John obediently stepped on his heels, toeing off his shoes.

He stood, gravel biting through his socks, watching as Sherlock got the same treatment. When Sherlock's search was completed the woman stepped back, drawing her weapon again, and gave a low whistle.

John's attention jerked upwards as a window screeched open above them. The first thing he saw was the muzzle of a rifle, and then a moment later Moran looked down at them, his green eyes piercing. He nodded sharply and the woman opened the rusty metal side door. "Upstairs," she said.

John started toward the door, stopping only as Sherlock gripped his wrist tightly. After a wordless exchange John nodded, letting Sherlock precede him up the stairs as the door clanged shut behind them. The stairs were a crumbling amalgamation of concrete and rusty metal, and John had the stray thought that the whole structure might just collapse and do Moran's job for him.  _How disappointing that would be for everyone_ , John thought snidely, suppressing an inappropriate and probably borderline-hysterical giggle.

The door at the top of the stairs was open, half-hanging off its hinges. Sherlock stepped through and John saw the almost momentary hitch in his stride as he took in the scene. Sherlock walked further into the room, John following close behind.

He had expected an upper-level room, but instead the door opened up into a gallery of sorts, approximately three metres wide where they stood but running more narrowly along all four sides of the immense factory with only a metal rail dividing it from the cavernous interior. The gallery seemed to butt out onto the factory floor in wider sections at some points, and they were standing on one, the concrete space empty but for two metal chairs and Moran, standing casually by the rail with his rifle cradled in his hands. The far ends of the factory were lost in gloom, but a construction light illuminated this section, the harsh glare of the halogen bulbs adding an extra layer of eerieness to the surroundings.

"Come in, come in," Moran said with false affability, gesturing them forward with the muzzle of the rifle.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed on the weapon. "An L115A3 Long Range Rifle," he said in that crisp, over-enunciated voice he used under pressure. "A bit much for such close quarters, isn't it?"

"Not at all," Moran said evenly. "Come see."

Another glowing light from below drew Sherlock and John closer to the rail. Moran kept the rifle up and ready, stepping a careful distance back as John and Sherlock approached. Sherlock was able to see the factory floor below first, and John prepared himself as he heard Sherlock's sharp intake of breath.

At the far end of the factory, another construction light cast a pool of illumination amid the strange hulking metal and concrete shapes of the abandoned power equipment. In that circle of light was Mycroft, his arms apparently secured behind him, his ankles bound to each leg of the metal chair in which he was sitting. As with John and Sherlock, he had been stripped down to his white button-down and trousers, his stockinged feet flat on the concrete floor. Spots of red showed bright against the pale fabric of his shirt under the merciless glare of the halogen bulbs.

Mycroft's face was pale and drawn. His eyes had been closed, but they blinked open as he was apparently roused by the voices. He squinted against the light and John could tell the moment he caught sight of them. A combination of rage and absolute fear shuddered over his face before he composed his features into blankness again. He deliberately shut his eyes, raising his chin defiantly.

"You see?" Moran said. "You've interrupted me at target practice. A man is only as good as his skills, is he not?"

John gripped Sherlock's wrist, feeling the tremor of aborted movement in his body as Moran raised the rifle, sighting carefully at Mycroft.

"Barely 120 metres," Moran sighed. "Hardly a challenge, but I make do." Only the slightest narrowing of his eyes betrayed his intention as he smoothly pulled the trigger.

A harsh, involuntary sound escaped Sherlock's throat, and within a millisecond Moran had swung the rifle around, muzzle pointed at Sherlock again. Moran gestured with his head and they all looked down at Mycroft. A new spot of red was blooming across the crest of his left shoulder, a perfect match to the one on the right. Moran had just grazed him, and John shuddered inwardly at the thought of that kind of accuracy from a shot taken so casually without even a mount.

"Now that you are here, the real fun can begin," Moran said. "What should I take next? An ear, perhaps? A toe? Maybe something a touch more vital...a kneecap?"

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, his voice steady and cool. "Certainly not Mycroft, he was just to get us here. So, we're here now. What is going to satisfy you?"

"Don't be coy, Mr. Holmes. You know what I want."

"You want to hurt me," Sherlock asserted immediately, and even John could hear the thread of hope in his voice.

Moran merely shook his head, tut-tutting chidingly. "Try harder," he prompted.

Sherlock's fists clenched in rage, his voice growing low and hoarse. "You want to hurt John," he admitted.

"Better," Moran taunted. "Now take a few steps back, both of you. And Dr. Watson, if you would be so kind as to remove your shirt, as to improve the view."

They both stepped back, a muscle in Sherlock's jaw twitching as John set numb fingers to his buttons, pulling off his shirt, and at Moran's raised eyebrow his vest as well. John shuddered as Moran's eyes appeared to take in his bare torso avidly.

"Interesting," he murmured. "You are no stranger to pain, Dr. Watson. That should make this all the better." He licked his lips, the quick flicker of his tongue revealing his interest in a way that made John's stomach churn.

Moran straightened, his voice growing more businesslike. "There are some zip ties on that chair." He gestured with the rifle again. "Hands at your back where I can see, Dr. Watson, and Mr. Holmes please do the honors."

John turned his back on Moran, pressing his fists together at his back, thumb against thumb. Moran tutted chidingly again. "Wrists flat together, Doctor Watson, we both know better than that," he said, voice laced with sham good humour.

John shrugged. "Can't fault me for trying," he said evenly, pressing his inner wrists together. The posture pulled on his bad shoulder painfully, and when Sherlock looped the heavy plastic tie around his wrists there was no slack whatsoever.

"Tighter," Moran instructed, and John felt the tie begin to cut into his skin. His hands would be numb in a few hours at the most, assuming he lived that long.

At Moran's careful instruction Sherlock guided John into the metal chair, securing another tie between the one at his wrists and the rail on the chair's back.

Then Sherlock stepped back, his back to Moran, shoulders tipped back as he pressed his own wrists together behind his back. His head dipped, curls falling over his forehead, as he waited for Moran to secure him.

Moran merely laughed. "Such a pretty picture, Mr. Holmes, but there is no need."

Sherlock's head jerked up, every ounce of sham submission gone as he glared over his shoulder. "What do you mean?"

"An expert in martial arts, are you not, as well as a proficient boxer? Were you hoping I'd put my rifle down and come closer, Mr. Holmes, so you could overpower me?" Moran's voice dripped with mockery. " _Do_  tell me that was not the full extent of your clever plan? I would be so disappointed."

Sherlock straightened slowly, turning back toward Moran, his eyes flicking between Moran and John. "You said you wanted to hurt John," he said, his voice faltering in uncertainty.

" _You_  said that, Mr. Holmes. And I said  _better_ , but not  _correct_ ," Moran retorted, enunciating every word carefully. With his right hand still carefully aiming the sniper rifle, he reached to the small of his back with the left, pulling out a wicked-looking hunting knife with a serrated tip.

A flick of the wrist and the knife spun across the concrete floor, ending its last lazy turn neatly at Sherlock's feet. "I'm not going to hurt your John, Mr. Holmes." Moran's light green eyes locked on Sherlock's face, as if drinking in his every reaction. " _You_  are."


	30. The Game

A flick of the wrist and the knife spun across the concrete floor, ending its last lazy turn neatly at Sherlock's feet. "I'm not going to hurt your John, Mr. Holmes." Moran's light green eyes locked on Sherlock's face, as if drinking in his every reaction. " _You_  are."

John bit back a curse, his hands instinctively jerking against the biting hold of the zip ties. They had known this was going to be bad, but... _bloody fuck_.

John could see Sherlock's face in profile, limned in gold by the construction light. Sherlock's eyes squeezed shut, a shuddering breath escaping him as the import of Moran's words hit him. Then the moment passed and Sherlock lifted his chin haughtily, wrinkling his nose as if the knife personally offended him.

"Why would I do that?" he asked.

Moran smiled, as if he had been hoping Sherlock would ask. "So many reasons, Mr. Holmes. Least of which is because you have no choice. Unless you want me to put a bullet in Dr. Watson's head right now. Or in your brother's. Or perhaps both?"

Sherlock bent gracefully, picking up the knife and holding it in his palm thoughtfully, as if testing the weight.

"You'll kill us all eventually," he said, his voice flat and emotionless. "Now or later, what does it matter?"

John bit his cheek to stop himself from hissing Sherlock's name.  _What did the mad bugger think he was about?_  But he trusted Sherlock to play this game with Moran. John knew his role in this. It wouldn't be pretty, but it was one for which he was well-suited.

Moran seemed more alert now that Sherlock held the knife. The muzzle of his gun held a steady, unwavering point at Sherlock's head, even as Moran shrugged philosophically. "Human nature, Mr. Holmes. Hope springs eternal, isn't that the saying? Perhaps I don't want to kill you after all. Perhaps it will be enough for me to break you, to twist this thing between you and leave you both alive, letting it fester."

Moran seemed to read the surprise Sherlock couldn't keep from his face. "Oh yes, Jim knew. He saw what was between you two, likely before you even did. He wanted to 'burn the heart out of you,' Mr. Holmes. A nice turn of phrase, isn't it? I don't think he quite managed it though. But perhaps I can."

He took a step closer, the green eyes eerie in the artifical light. "Maybe it will be enough to know that Dr. Watson will never look upon you again without fear in his eyes. To know that when he wakes screaming in the night, it will be  _your_  face that he is seeing,  _your_  hands that were twisting the blade into his flesh. Maybe it would satisfy me to know that he will look into the mirror at his incapacity, his  _disfigurements_  and blame you for every one of them." The eyes narrowed, Moran's face lit with utter malevolence. "What do you think, Mr. Holmes?" he hissed. " _Would that burn?"_

John watched as Sherlock's facade of indifference started to crumble, the hand holding the knife beginning to tremble.

Moran smiled in slow satisfaction, his voice growing light and taunting again. "How much pain do you think your Dr. Watson can take? Which of you will break first? Will he beg for you to kill him, or will you break first, and simply slit his throat to end his suffering?" He took a few steps forward, still keeping a careful distance from Sherlock, the muzzle of the gun now pointed at John. "The knife is in your hands, after all. You could stop this any time you like."

John gritted his teeth as Moran pressed the muzzle of the rifle against his skin, his eyes flicking back and forth between what he was doing to John and Sherlock's reaction. The metal of the rifle was still hot from being fired as Moran traced a line from behind John's ear to the hollow of his throat. His eyes tauntingly on Sherlock now, Moran leaned his weight in a little, drawing the muzzle up again and pressing it hard into John's carotid artery for long seconds. John braced himself, but as his vision started to grey at the edges he couldn't help but struggle. Moran kept the pressure up — all fifteen pounds of rifle and even more of his body weight compressing the blood supply to John's brain, and John felt the dizzy rush of lightheadedness.

"Stop! Stop it!" Sherlock's voice was loud even over the ringing in John's ears, and Moran immediately eased back the pressure. John squeezed his eyes shut tight and opened them again, trying to clear his vision, as Moran chuckled.

"I understand you are a bit of an anatomist, Mr. Holmes," Moran said, the sharp eyes steady on Sherlock's pale face. He traced the rifle down John's collarbone now, circling the scar on his left shoulder for a teasing moment before digging sharply in. John hissed in a breath as the damaged and oversensitive nerves flared into life, sending a jolt of pain radiating through his shoulder and down his spine.

"I am somewhat of an... _enthusiast_...of that science as well," Moran said, sighing with satisfaction at John's response.

"Yes," Sherlock bit out through clenched teeth. "I've seen some of your work."

Moran's head jerked up, surprise showing for a moment, before he smiled again. "Have you?" He traced the muzzle of his rifle up John's chin. In a sudden move he jammed it between John's lips, smashing the muzzle inexorably against his teeth until John opened his mouth. "How... _exciting_ ," Moran purred suggestively.

Moran pushed harder, making John choke and drool around the unyielding metal of the threaded muzzle brake. John closed his eyes, fighting back his panic, tasting gunpowder residue and mineral oil, bitter and slimy against his tongue as Moran shoved the muzzle to the back of his throat until he gagged on it.

Finally Moran jerked the muzzle back, wiping it on John's jeans with a grimace of distaste. John sucked desperate gasps of air into his burning lungs, unable to even wipe the saliva from his chin.

"Your brother must have given you those files," Moran said to Sherlock. "I'll have to thank him."

"Wait!" Sherlock cried out, but in a few quick steps Moran was at the railing again, smoothly lifting the rifle and firing off another shot with a deafening crack.

Unable to see Mycroft from where he was trapped in the metal chair, John had to watch Sherlock to try to figure out what had happened, seeing the flash of terror on his face fade to a grim determination.  _Another flesh wound_ , John thought in relief. Moran was determined to toy with them all, for as long as he could.

Moran lounged by the railing. "It's almost flattering, knowing that an expert like yourself has had time to appreciate my work," he smirked. "And so convenient, that you would know just what I like." The smirk faded, Moran's jaw clenching tight. "Best get on with it, then, hadn't you? Show me how  _clever_  you are, Mr. Holmes. Show me what I did to those girls."

Sherlock stood, his posture unusually hesitant, as he looked back and forth between John and Moran, the knife still held loosely in his grip.

" _Now!"_ Moran suddenly barked, making both John and Sherlock flinch.

Sherlock took a few steps until he was standing in front of John. Slowly he raised his eyes, and the pain and panic John saw in the stark grey depths made something twist in his chest.

"Oh god... _John_..." Sherlock breathed.

" _Sherlock,"_  John whispered in warning, his voice hoarse and thick. "Pull it together. You know what you have to do."

"I — I don't know if I..."

" _Stop it._  You have to." John sucked in another deep breath, letting it out slowly.  _"Do it,"_  he gritted out.

Sherlock nodded sharply. He closed his eyes tight, and when he opened them again John could see the difference. The grey eyes were cold now, detached. The trembling in his hand stilled, his grip firming on the knife.

Sherlock turned his head, his grey eyes pinning Moran. "You start small. Bruising patterns indicate injury several hours pre-mortem," he said, his voice suddenly cold and crisp, all traces of panic gone. "They were all working girls, so they knew what they were about. They would have fought right away if you pulled the knife — over too quickly."

Moran's face gave away nothing, and Sherlock's pale eyes turned back to John, the icy gaze stripping him bare as Sherlock shifted the knife to his left hand. "You start with a few taps...a slap here, a knock there. Enough to make it seem like just rough sex."

"Show me." Moran's voice was thick with excitement.

Even knowing what Sherlock had to do, the first slap caught John by surprise. His cheek immediately started to burn. A cuff to the side of his head followed. It would hardly have affected John on any other day, but now — his heart racing with panic and still slightly dizzy from choking — it made his head swim nauseatingly.

John swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away from Sherlock's coldly assessing gaze. Sherlock began speaking again, his voice distant, almost meditative, as he recounted Moran's pattern of assault. "You savor the anticipation. Watching their confusion grow. Waiting for the moment when it slowly dawns on them what is really going on. What you really are."

Moran took a step closer. "And then?"

"Then you start in earnest. Face, ribs, kidneys. You keep them stunned, but still no blade." Sherlock's eerie, clinical gaze swept John's body again. "Hope springs eternal. At this point they still think they might survive with just a beating, and so they take it."

" _Yes."_  Moran looked enthralled, his eyes gleaming, and in that moment he reminded John so much of Moriarty it was like looking at a ghost. The madness those two must have shared. It was no wonder Moran had gone around the bend when Sherlock outwitted Moriarty. "Go ahead," Moran hissed, with a creepy reptilian tilt of his head. "Make it good. I'll know if you don't."

Sherlock placed the knife carefully on the floor, and moved a step closer. John saw his hands curl into fists, and then the next thing John knew was a blur of movement and a blossom of pain over his ribs. His breath grunted out of him, and he barely had time to gasp in another before the next blow hit him, a sharp left hook to his jaw that snapped his head back and filled his mouth with the copper sting of blood.

John turned his head and spat in Moran's direction, blood and saliva staining the dirty concrete floor.

Moran licked his lips, taking another step closer as if drawn against his will. "More," he rasped.

The next few minutes were a blur of pain. John tried to move with the punches, not brace against them, but tied to the chair as he was he had almost no choice. Sherlock's strikes were swift and brutal, sharp jabs knocking the breath from his lungs again and again, heavy clouts to his face making his head ring.

It was a few moments before he realized the buffeting had stopped. His head was hanging limply, blood and sweat stinging his eyes, every breath rasping through his throat as if he were breathing sawdust. The individual points of pain had blurred together into a throbbing thrum of agony.

He raised his head. Moran had moved even closer, only a few steps away now as if magnetically drawn towards John's suffering. His eyes were dark, pupils dilated as his gaze hungrily devoured John's injuries. John spat again, splattering blood at Moran's feet. He shifted his gaze to Sherlock. He was panting, his knuckles scraped raw, his shirtsleeves spattered in blood. His eyes were blank.

"Now the knife," Moran urged, his voice avid and breathless.

Sherlock looked down at the knife as if he had never seen it before. He wiped the blood and sweat from his right palm on his trousers before picking it up, his grip on the hilt practiced and firm. When he spoke again his voice was gravelly, but his tone still remote and clinical.

"This is when they realize. You are always looking at their faces, watching for that moment. You want to see it in their eyes — that flash of utter clarity, when they finally understand that they are in the last few hours of their short and pitiful lives. That nothing but pain and death awaits them."

"They want to fight now," Moran said, low and confidential, as if Sherlock were his confederate — his  _accomplice_. He moved a small step closer. "But it's too late. They are weak, bound...beaten. I put my hand on their throat. I hold their faces still, so they watch me cut."

"Where?" Sherlock asked dispassionately.

"Start with the scar," Moran said greedily. "Put your own mark on that flesh."

Sherlock pressed the edge of the blade to John's scar. John pressed his eyes shut tight, trying to bite back his whine of fear.  _Oh god_.

Sherlock's hand was suddenly in John's hair, pulling. John allowed his head to be tilted, forcing his eyes open, watching the first trickle of blood snaking down from the edge of the blade.

"This is the height of your pleasure," Sherlock said to Moran. "Watching the knife cut through flesh." The blade pressed in deeper, searing through the damaged nerves, making John's whole aching body tense, wrists straining heplessly against the plastic ties. He couldn't stop the muffled scream that escaped him as the knife cut even deeper, carving a careful path through his scarred flesh.

"It's almost beautiful, isn't it," Sherlock said, his voice sounding distant through the haze of pain and lightheadedness washing over John. "The way the skin yields so easily to the blade. The rush of blood, so red and alive." A twist of the knife sent another blaze of pain through John's whole body, making him scream again.

Moran was close now, as if compelled to smell and taste the blood himself, his eyes transfixed by the slow welling of red underneath the serrated edge of the blade. "Beautiful," he breathed.

Suddenly, a distant clatter snapped Moran out of his trance. His head jerked around instinctively for a moment, and he took two quick steps toward the railing before he wheeled back to look at Sherlock and John. His hands tightened on the rifle, his eyes losing their lust-drunk haze as he pulled himself to full alertness.

"Step away from him," he ordered, and Sherlock took several deliberate steps backward. Keeping the rifle trained on Sherlock, Moran edged backwards toward the rail, crouching slightly. He glanced down at the factory floor, and then took a longer look, the muscle of his jaw clenched tightly. He took a few steps toward Sherlock.

"Where is he?" he barked.

Sherlock simply stared at Moran in silence.

Enraged, Moran took a few steps closer to Sherlock. His back was to John now, the muscles of his shoulders and arms flexing under his t-shirt as he aimed the rifle at Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock stood against the wall, arms at his sides, hands slightly obscured behind the legs of his trousers. "Who took..." Moran bit off his words as he seemed to realize something. "Show me your hands," he snapped. "Where is the..."

"Drop it!" a voice called from the gallery across from them, and Moran instinctively turned to face this new threat.

He fired the rifle and John lunged forward, the knife in his right hand where Sherlock had pressed it after cutting the zip ties in Moran's moment of distraction. Moran wheeled back toward John and John sliced upwards, feeling the knife blade catch and drag, sliding between Moran's right wrist and the stock of the rifle, the serrated edge cleaving tender skin, artery, and tendon.

Moran shrieked, the rifle wobbling as he instinctively cradled his limp right hand against his body. John grabbed for the stock of the rifle but Moran was faster, swinging it like a club and crashing the full weight of it onto John's right hand. The knife flew from John's hand and John threw himself at Moran, sending both of them crashing to the ground.

Moran tried to head-butt John but John jerked away, managing to draw his knee up hard under Moran's ribs. Moran's breath wheezed out of him, rank against John's face. John scrabbled back and then stomped hard on Moran's ribcage, feeling the crunch of fractured bone under the heel of his socked foot. Moran curled into the injury, gasping in a burbling breath, and John brought his heel down again on Moran's thigh, snapping the femur with a sharp crack.

"John!" Sherlock's voice pulled John out of his haze of rage and adrenaline. Sherlock held the rifle now, smeared with blood, pointed at Moran.

"Don't fire," John rasped. He wiped his forearm across his face, trying to smear the blood and sweat from his eyes. "The barrel's bent."

The knife gleamed up at John from a few paces away, and he walked over to it on unsteady legs. He wiped the palm of his right hand on his filthy jeans and bent over to pick it up, ignoring the pain that blazed through his torso at the movement.

" _Bloody hell."_  Lestrade appeared in the doorway, taking in the scene, lowering his gun slightly once he realized the threat was neutralized. Anthea was at his back, her own firearm at the ready.

Sherlock ignored them both, his pale grey eyes locked on John. "John, give me the knife," he said, his voice deadly calm.

John squinted. "No, Sherlock."

"John,  _give it to me_." Sherlock repeated.

" _No_ , Sherlock." John heard the whipcrack tone in his own voice. He met Sherlock's eyes for a long moment, letting him see his intent, waiting until it registered in Sherlock's face. Sherlock's silver eyes widened, and John nodded. "I'll do it."

Keeping his body oriented to where Moran lay curled and wheezing on the ground, he turned his head to look at Lestrade. "Turn around, Greg."

Lestrade had been watching in confusion, and John saw the narrowing of his eyes as the penny dropped. "No, John." he said firmly. "He's incapacitated, we'll take him into custody now."

" _Turn around, Greg,"_  John said again, his voice low and fierce. He could see the struggle on Lestrade's face, eyes darting from Sherlock to John to Moran. Almost unconsciously, Lestrade raised his gunhand halfway — not pointing at anything, just getting ready.

John shifted his eyes minutely over Lestrade's shoulder and nodded. He saw Lestrade's eyes widen in realization, his body barely starting to pivot, but Anthea was quicker. She dealt him an efficient yet solid blow with the butt of her gun and Lestrade crumpled.

John moved forward, crouching before Moran. Moran met his gaze, his breath rattling wetly though his chest. The green eyes were vivid with virulent hatred, defiant to the end. John felt Sherlock move to stand close behind him, the warm touch of his fingers on John's bare back grounding him. His left hand pinning Moran's chest down firmly, John slid the knife in his right hand under Moran's sternum, angling up and then twisting.

Moran coughed, a viscous splatter of blood, and then stilled. John's left hand slid up. The last few beats of Moran's pulse thumped erratically against his fingertips, and then it was gone.

Leaving the knife in place he tried to rise, wobbling as his legs started to buckle under him. Sherlock's arms were there, lifting and steadying him, pulling him back from the corpse into a warm embrace.

They stumbled backwards until Sherlock's back hit the wall and then Sherlock sank down, bringing John with him into his lap, bracing him against his chest. Sherlock's whole body was shaking, his hands unsteady as he tore at the sleeve of his shirt, ripping it free and pressing it against John's bleeding shoulder.

John whined in pain as the press of Sherlock's hand sent agony searing through his nerves again. Sherlock's face was smothered in John's neck, and John felt his lips moving against his skin. He took a steadying breath, and when the haze of pain had receded a bit he realized what Sherlock was mumbling.

" _I'm sorry...I'm so sorry...God, John, I'm so sorry..."_

With a groan of pain John turned, stopping Sherlock's words with the crush of his mouth. Sherlock met the kiss, still trying to sob apologies into John's mouth, frantic and shaking. John managed to get his right hand up, tightening in Sherlock's curls, gentling the kiss.

"Shhh. You have nothing to apologize for. You did exactly what you had to, Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head in denial, his eyes shut tight.

"Sherlock," John snapped, forcing those beautiful eyes open to meet his. He managed a smile, nuzzling wearily against Sherlock's cheek. "It's over."

He saw some of the horror fade from Sherlock's expression. "Over," Sherlock repeated, as if trying to make sense of the word.

"Yeah." John kissed Sherlock again, chastely, before finally allowing himself to collapse back into the warmth of his embrace. "Over."

He let the haze of pain and post-adrenaline crash make the world fuzzy around him, distantly hearing Sherlock quiz Anthea on Moran's confederates (apprehended) and Mycroft (spirited away to the caring hands of Molly).

Greg started to stir, sitting up groaningly.  _"Bloody hell,"_ he griped again, and John felt the first hysterical giggle start to shake him. Fuck, but that hurt, and he tried to stifle it, but then he felt Sherlock's chest shake in his own low, rumbling laugh, and it was hopeless.

He alternately winced and giggled, finally collapsing back against Sherlock's chest, closing his eyes against Greg's entirely unamused gaze and letting the world get even more distant. He concentrated on the feel of Sherlock, safe and warm and vital all around him, caring for nothing else as the police and paramedics started to arrive.


	31. The Return

"...you sodding bastards think that the rules don't apply to you..."

John and Sherlock sat side by side on the back gate of the ambulance, watching Greg rant. John, having refused a trip to the hospital, was stoically letting a paramedic stitch and plaster him up at least. Sherlock seemed content to just sit and watch over him, fending off the occasional offer of a shock blanket.

"...falling concrete my  _arse_. We all know that Anthea woman, or whoever she is, conked me a good one. For fuck's sake, my ex-wife didn't give me half as much heartache as you lot, and I bloody  _divorced_  her..."

"To be accurate..." Sherlock began.

John stamped down hard on Sherlock's foot before he could point out that Lestrade's wife had actually divorced  _him_  rather than the other way around. Greg didn't even seem to notice, the tirade continuing without a breath.

"...not once did you even stop to think that it would be my arse on the line..."

Neither of them were paying much attention to Greg's words anymore, but John was keeping a careful eye on his somewhat wobbling stance. The paramedic finished up putting a dressing over the stitches, and John gave her a nod of thanks before she escaped into the depths of the vehicle.

"...for Christ's sake I should have known the day I met you that you'd be more trouble than a fucking bagful of drunken monkeys..."

Sherlock, seemingly struck by the colorful turn of phrase, raised an eyebrow at John. John's mouth twitched, and he bit the inside of his cheek to suppress a giggle. The combination of relief and painkillers was making him remarkably giddy. Finally Greg seemed to wind down, huffing in irritation.

"Absolutely, Greg," John said soothingly. "Couldn't agree more. Now why don't you just sit down here with us for a moment. Plenty of room..." He had to elbow Sherlock quite sternly but eventually he got the hint and scooted over, John sliding in next to him to make room for Greg.

Greg narrowed his eyes at John for a moment before his whole body seemed to slump. "Christ, I'm knackered," he admitted, lowering himself weakly to the offered seat.

"That'll be the concussion. You should make sure you stay awake for a few hours yet. Maybe sleep on a couch at the Yard and have someone on the night shift wake you every so often..."

As if summoned, a long sleek black sedan pulled up next to the ambulance.

The door smoothly opened, revealing Anthea, looking pressed and prim, tapping away on her mobile. She glanced up for just a moment. "Get in the car, Lestrade," she said calmly, and then returned to her rapid tapping.

" _You!"_ Lestrade's face was a picture, torn between looking outraged and gobsmacked. "I'm not going anywhere with you. You knocked me a good one on the head!"

Anthea paused in her tapping for another moment. She favored Lestrade with a long, speculative look from head to toe before her mouth tilted in a sly smile. "Kiss it and make it better?" she suggested, and then returned to her phone.

"Crikey!" Now Lestrade just looked stunned.

John snickered. "You're in there, mate."

Greg was still staring at the open car door, shaking his head slowly. "I don't know if I should be chuffed or terrified."

John pretended to consider the question seriously. "A little of both, I should think," he finally concluded.

Greg ran a hand through his silver hair. "I'll never be able to turn my back on her," he muttered.

Sherlock leaned around John, peering at Greg. "A multitude of sexual positions would still be feasible under those constraints," he supplied helpfully.

Greg's jaw dropped again. He looked at Sherlock as if he had sprouted horns, opening and closing his mouth a few times before he managed to summon words. "Sex advice from Sherlock bloody Holmes," he finally said in stunned amazement. "God help us all."

John felt Sherlock bristle next to him, and sighed in resignation. "As John can attest..." Sherlock began indignantly, and John was already snickering again as Greg's eyes widened even further. "...I am quite proficient in the logistics of sexual intercourse," Sherlock finished haughtily.

Greg looked from one of them to the other in silence for a long moment. John gave him the best shrug he could manage with only one working shoulder before resting his head against Sherlock with a weary smile.

"Bloody  _hell_ ," Greg finally said despairingly, putting his face in his hands and scrubbing as if to remove the mental image. "I thought you two were trouble before, god only  _knows_  what kind of disasters you'll cause now that you're  _shagging_."

It was too much. John and Sherlock both dissolved into giggles, ignoring the shove of irritation Greg gave John, pushing him into Sherlock like a domino.

John finally wiped his eyes. "Get in the damned car, Greg," he said. "You'll get our statements in the morning." He cast a significant glance at the car. " _Late_  in the morning," he amended.

Lestrade seemed to come to a decision. He pushed himself to his feet, straightening his cuffs self-consciously. "Yeah. Well." A wide smile broke slowly over his face. "Ta, mates. See you tomorrow." Quick handshakes all around and then Greg was sliding into the car. John and Sherlock watched in amusement as it pulled smoothly away.

John leaned tiredly back against Sherlock. He had just turned his mind to wondering where in the hell they would get a cab out here when Donovan showed up at Sherlock's elbow.

"Lestrade said to give you lot a ride," she said, her usual barely-concealed hostility strangely absent.

John opened his mouth to decline, knowing how Sherlock abhorred riding in a panda car, but Sherlock interrupted.

"That would be lovely, Sally, thanks."

The ride was a blur. Sherlock settled John gently in the back seat, muttering something John couldn't hear to Sally and then sliding in next to him. By the time the car stopped John was lying on his good side, his head in Sherlock's lap, Sherlock's fingers tracing gentle patterns in his hair. He didn't even remember tipping over.

Sherlock helped him up and out of the car. "Ta, Sally," John managed, before blinking in confusion.

"What...?" he began.

Sherlock wrapped an arm around John's waist, careful of his bruised ribs, half-supporting and half-dragging him up the steps of 221 Baker Street.

"Mycroft kept up the rent," Sherlock said nonchalantly. "Mrs. Hudson readied the place for us before the press conference. I'm sure she'd love to welcome you home herself but she went to her sister's for a few days, just in case Moran came looking."

John tottered a bit, and Sherlock pulled him even closer as he opened the front door. John found himself blinking back tears at the familiar sight of the entryway.

They both stopped for a moment before tackling the seventeen steps leading up to their flat. Sherlock leaned against the wall, John resting heavily against him, face buried in his neck.

"Home," John murmured disbelievingly into Sherlock's skin.

He could feel Sherlock smile against his hair. "Home," Sherlock affirmed.

Loopy on exhaustion and painkillers, John vacantly let Sherlock guide him wherever he wanted. Sherlock settled him in his armchair, solicitously plumping the Union Jack pillow before placing it behind John's neck. John was then treated to the remarkable sight of Sherlock making tea in a clean kitchen.

He was already half-dozing, the empty cup dangling from his hand, when Sherlock gently removed it and guided John upstairs. Sherlock peeled the filthy clothes off both of them and settling them into a warm bath, Sherlock's gangly body folded into the tub with John cradled between his legs. John rested back against Sherlock's chest, drifting peacefully on the ripples of endorphins, painkillers, and warm water, distantly marveling at them both fitting into the tub so comfortably. Sherlock gently bathed them both, carefully avoiding the dressing on John's shoulder, and then bundled John into a towel and into his bed.

John gratefully crawled underneath the duvet, still somewhat overwhelmed at the thought of being back at home with Sherlock. He could hardly believe the crafty bastard hadn't told him all this time that 221 B was waiting for them.

He had almost drifted off before he realized that Sherlock was still standing by the bed, wrapped in his own towel, his long form limned silver in the moonlight.

"Hmmm?" John managed. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock looked unaccountably nervous, his gaze flicking from John's eyes to the dressing on his shoulder. "If I...I could sleep downstairs, if..." He stopped, and started again. "John I  _hurt_  you..."

"Oh,  _Christ_. Get into bed, you enormous berk," John mumbled sleepily. "You're not sleeping away from me another day in your life if I have anything to say about it."

Sherlock's smile was incandescent as he shed the towel and slipped under the duvet. John hauled him in closer, settling into his side with a groan of contentment.

"G'night, love," he said, pressing a blurry kiss to whatever spot of skin was under his lips. Collarbone, he thought, but couldn't be arsed to make sure.

Sherlock pressed a tender kiss to the top of his head. "Good night, John."

John felt Sherlock's fingers again, tracing soothing patterns on his skin.  _Home_ , he thought again, as sleep swallowed him up.


	32. The End

Sherlock finished the last few notes with a flourish, and Mrs. Hudson put her teacup down to clap enthusiastically.

"Lovely, just lovely," she beamed proudly. "Wasn't that lovely, John?"

John kept his eyes on Sherlock where he stood by the window, the violin and bow now dangling from his hands as he mocked a small ironic bow in Mrs. Hudson's direction. His graceful figure was silhouetted against the gathering dusk, the small pools of lamp light casting a luminous golden glow on his aubergine shirt and tight black trousers.

" _Lovely,"_  John repeated, letting the full measure of the warmth he felt color his voice.

Sherlock smiled knowingly, his eyelashes dipping down as a slight pink tinged his cheeks.

" _Well,"_  Mrs. Hudson said into the charged silence. "Thank you so much for including me in your celebration, but I must be getting to bed now." She cast a coy glance between them. "I'll be taking my herbal soother, and I'll be  _quite_  dead to the world, I'll have you know."

John couldn't help his blush, but Sherlock just chuckled. "Why Mrs. Hudson, I don't know  _what_  you're implying," he said, his mouth curling with amusement.

Mrs. Hudson laughed gaily. "I'm sure you don't." She bustled over to give Sherlock a hearty hug, and then favored John with a gentler version, careful of his healing bruises. She stopped at the door one more time to beam at them both. "I am  _so_  happy to have you both home, loves," she chirped happily, her eyes misting over.

Sherlock seemed at a loss for words, clearing his throat and blinking rapidly, and so John spoke up. "We are very glad to be home as well, Mrs. Hudson. And thank you again for the cake. It was delicious."

"Oh, you flatterer! I'll bring another up tomorrow. You both need feeding up!" She smiled the whole way out the door. John locked the door behind her, listening to her making her way down the steps for a moment before turning back to Sherlock. He was still standing by the windows, looking out at the city meditatively.

"Another cuppa?" John asked.

"Hmm?" Sherlock seemed to be jolted from his thoughts. "No, no. Oh  _do_  sit down, John, you're still healing," he nagged irritably.

John flexed his shoulder. "It's much better," he said, before sitting down again with a sigh.

Sherlock's eyes wandered over John for a few long moments, his expression unreadable. Finally he took a deep breath and began to play again, and John listened in awed appreciation. The piece was more complex than anything he had ever heard Sherlock play, starting slow and moody, but with amazing runs of glitteringly melodic notes. John watched Sherlock's fingers fly across the fingerboard, at times so quickly that they were just a pale blur of movement, at other times slow and deliberate, wringing every last vibrato from the mournful notes.

Sherlock's whole body bent and twisted with the force of the music, a damp sheen of sweat gathering on his forehead and the exposed hollow of his throat as he bowed vigorously.

Sherlock paused for a moment. "What is that?" John found himself asking, without even realizing he meant to speak.

Sherlock's gentle smile was a revelation, warm and affectionate, and John was so dazzled by it he hardly heard his reply at first.

"It's Sarasate," Sherlock said softly, and then continued. In a few moments the music changed, taking on a lively and celebratory tone.

John closed his eyes to appreciate the astonishing performance, and was suddenly struck by the memory — Sherlock between his thighs, warm and pliant as John rubbed almond oil into the pale expanse of his wrist.

_["I'll play for you," Sherlock had said, nuzzling into the open vee of John's collar. "When we're back at Baker Street. I'll play Sarasate." "Yes," John had answered. "You'll play for me, and I'll listen. And when you're done, you'll put your violin and bow away carefully...and you'll put these beautiful hands on me instead."]_

John smiled. In the four days that they had been back at Baker Street Sherlock had been plying him with tea and takeaway, urging him to rest at every available opportunity, and generally treating him as if he were made of glass. The novelty had worn off after the first day, and by now John was downright sick of it. Now Sherlock was playing Sarasate for him, and John thought he knew what he was trying to say in his own, obscure, Sherlockian way.

John stood up slowly. He still had some limitation in the range of motion in his left shoulder, but honestly he was long accustomed to that, and had no difficulty pulling off his jumper one-handed. Sherlock cast a sly glance at him, but kept playing as John's t-shirt followed, tossed carelessly aside as well.

The bruises looked truly dreadful, but most of the tenderness had faded. They wouldn't hinder him much, John thought with a smile of anticipation. Slowly he circled around Sherlock, stopping about a pace behind him.

Sherlock was still bowing vigorously, swaying to the music, and John began by just reaching his hand out, placing his fingertips on the fluid length of Sherlock's back. Sherlock's bow skittered for just a moment and then he continued playing as John flattened his palm down, riding the movement of Sherlock's body, feeling the muscles bunch and twist beneath his hand. His body was warm with exertion beneath the silky fabric of the shirt, and John couldn't resist a slow stroke of his palm down to the hollow of Sherlock's spine.

He had a sense of Sherlock's range of movement now and stepped in closer, pressing the full length of his body against Sherlock's back, feeling Sherlock sway closer and away again as he gave himself over to the melody. It was intoxicating to be this close to Sherlock when he was held in the grip of the music — manic energy and focused joy radiating from every inch of his body.

John's arms snaked around Sherlock's waist, hands caressing the luxurious fabric of his silk button-down before gathering up handfuls, slowly pulling it untucked from his trousers. The trill of the violin didn't manage to entirely mask Sherlock's groan as John's tea-warmed hands smoothed across the taut muscles of Sherlock's belly.

John wrapped his left arm around Sherlock's bare waist while his right hand started at the bottom of Sherlock's shirt, slowly flicking it open, button by button, until it gaped open the full expanse of his lean chest.

With a hum of satisfaction John enfolded Sherlock fully in his arms, pressing his cheek against Sherlock's flexing shoulderblade, feeling the drag of the bow and the vibration of the notes resonating through his body.

The music reached a crescendo, and then concluded in a dramatic flourish of notes. The last few tones rang in the sudden silence as Sherlock dropped his arm, letting the violin and bow hang at his sides, panting slightly with exertion. He leaned back a bit into John and John gladly returned the gentle pressure, his arms tightening, hands sliding up to caress Sherlock's sweat-dampened torso.

Sherlock tilted his head back, nuzzling John's temple, and then stepped away to carefully place the Strad and bow back in its case.

He turned back to John, his grey eyes dark with arousal, but then hesitated, his eyes wandering assessingly over John's bare chest.

"Sherlock," John groaned. "It's  _fine_."

Sherlock reached out, the tips of his long pale fingers tentatively tracing the edges of John's mottled bruises in silent apology.

"Enough." John lay his own palm over the back of Sherlock's hand, forcing it down until it was pressed firmly to his skin over the bruises, and his sharp inhale of breath held nothing but pleasure. He reached out, twining his fingers in Sherlock's curls, pulling his head roughly down into a devouring kiss.

Sherlock held back for only a moment longer before yielding with a soft desperate noise, his long arms pulling John close as he ardently answered his kiss. "Upstairs," he finally murmured, walking backward as he tugged at John's belt, and John followed. They fumbled up the stairs together in a disorganized scramble of eager hands and clumsy feet, shedding belts, socks, and shoes as they went.

Two steps from the top John finally got Sherlock's trousers unfastened, shoving them down his thighs with an exclamation of triumph. Sherlock's resultant ungainly hop to keep from falling sent them both stumbling into each other in helpless laughter. Sherlock growled in mock vengeance as he pushed John backwards into his bedroom and onto his bed.

John tried to sit up but Sherlock was faster, stripping off his pants and straddling John's hips in one smooth movement. As John struggled up to his elbows Sherlock's sinful smile faded, his grey eyes growing serious.

He leaned down, carefully bracing his hands on either side of John's head. His kiss was soft and tender, almost chaste. John's arms came up to encircle Sherlock's shoulders and Sherlock gently pushed them down again by the forearms, carefully avoiding John's injured shoulder and torn wrists.

"Lie back," Sherlock instructed, his eyes warm. "Let me."

"Sherlock." John squirmed in aggravation. "I'm fine. Stop treating me like..."

Sherlock swooped in, interrupting John with a fierce kiss this time, nipping gently at his lips before sucking John's tongue into his mouth. When he drew back, leaving both of them breathless, his face was shadowed with some expression John couldn't read.

"I  _know_ ," Sherlock finally said. "I know you are capable, John, but I..." Sherlock's mouth twisted. "I need to do this." His hands ran gently over John's face, as if mapping his confusion with his fingertips.

John caught Sherlock's hands, pressing a kiss ot each palm. "You have nothing to atone for, Sherlock," he said firmly. "You kept us alive. What you had to do...it was the harder part. Much harder. And you can't imagine that I blame you for any of it."

"I know you don't," Sherlock whispered hoarsely.

"Then stop blaming  _yourself_ ," John answered, his voice thick with frustration.

"I will," Sherlock said. John's concern must have shown on his face, Sherlock's lashes shading his eyes for a moment before he answered again. "I will try. But...let me do this, John. Let me take care of you for once. It's...it's what I need to do."

John searched Sherlock's expression for a long moment, seeing only sincerity and a shadow of some nameless need. Finally he nodded, pressing a quick kiss to Sherlock's lips before resting back, letting his hands fall at his sides.

Sherlock started slowly, delicately, tracing the lines of John's face as if memorizing it. He continued down John's torso, worshipping every inch of bruised, scraped, and stitched skin. John relaxed into the novel sensation of Sherlock nibbling and licking, his fingers stroking and soothing.

Sherlock focused his attention on John's nipples, the soft nibbles turning to suckling bites, and John's hazy hum of relaxed arousal suddenly focused into sharp need. He writhed underneath Sherlock's mouth.

" _Jesus_ , Sherlock," he said feelingly.

Sherlock lifted his head, casting John a wicked glance through his eyelashes as his hands worked at the flies of John's jeans. His pale skin was flushed, his lush mouth pink and damp.

"Oh, Christ," John groaned. "You're so damned beautiful, love. It's fucking  _unfair_."

Sherlock reached up, deftly catching the hand that John hadn't even realized he had raised to tangle in Sherlock's hair, pressing it back to the mattress with a look of admonishment.

"Christ," John said again, as Sherlock stripped his jeans and pants ruthlessly away before continuing his gentle explorations, lapping at the tender skin of his abdomen before nuzzling into the crease of his groin.

The first touch of Sherlock's mouth to John's cock had him bucking up uncontrollably, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

"Oh fuck...oh, sodding fuck, that's lovely," he mumbled.

It was harder than he ever would have realized, to stay passive and pliant beneath Sherlock's touch. John had usually taken the lead with his sexual encounters, or at the very least been an active participant. Without having to focus on pleasuring his partner or planning what to do next, John had nothing to do but focus on his own sensations, making the experience almost unbearably intense. He had never felt so exposed, and yet at the same time so cherished.

Sherlock was meticulous and inexorable, learning John achingly slowly, discovering every inch of him. He varied his touch and the movements of his mouth to find what made John groan and squirm uncontrollably, what sent his breathing ragged. Then he worked him ruthlessly, using his graceful fingers and clever tongue to shatter John's control until he was sobbing in breathless abandon.

John heard himself as if from a distance, keening incoherently under the indescribably wicked feeling of Sherlock slowly taking him apart, hot mouth sucking and licking at his cock, long fingers stroking deep and slow inside his body. He rocked into each sensation, wanton and desperate. He didn't want it to be over and yet he couldn't hold back, and found himself balanced on the excruciating edge.

"Please," he heard himself begging. "Oh, Christ, Sherlock,  _please_..."

He felt Sherlock raise his head, pulling off with a slow, luxurious suck, and forced his eyes open. He groaned at the sight of those silver eyes dark with lust as Sherlock spoke for the first time since he had started.

"John," Sherlock growled, his velvet voice turned low and harsh with need. " _Now_ , John. Let go for me."

He lowered his head again, pulling John back into his mouth in a slick, filthy slide of lips and tongue, and twisted his fingers deep in John's body.

John came with an unrestrained shout, shuddering and shaking, spilling into the warm depth of Sherlock's mouth, feeling him swallow hungrily around him.

"Oh fuck...oh god..." John moaned as Sherlock licked him langorously through the aftershocks, holding his hips firmly down until John had subsided into a shivering mess.

Sherlock gently removed his fingers, leaving John feeling strangely empty, and then he was surging up John's body. All his composure had vanished as he pressed his rigid length against John's damp cock, rutting frantically into the sweat-slick crease of his groin.

Sherlock rocked into John, rough and desperate, harsh grunts escaping him with every grind of his hips.

"John," he was muttering between grunts, sounding almost as if he were in pain. "John, John, yes, oh god,  _John_..."

John held him tightly, whispering indistinct endearments into the soft curls, and in only moments Sherlock was coming hard, a ragged cry escaping him. He collapsed, shivering, pressing his face into John's right shoulder, one of the few unbruised places on his body. John felt the dampness of tears against his shoulder and squeezed Sherlock harder against his chest, murmuring soothingly, stroking his back and hair.

"God, love, that was gorgeous, so beautiful...thank you, love..."

Sherlock's breath hitched and he pressed his face harder against John's skin, his back shuddering under John's palms as he fought against the tears. Finally he seemed to calm, his body relaxing and his breath evening out. John pressed a kiss into Sherlock's temple as Sherlock slid to the side, his face still hidden against John's body.

They lay in silence for long minutes, and it was John who finally got up, fetching a warm wet flannel to clean them both.

Sherlock opened his eyes sleepily as John gently wiped the pale skin clean. John smiled to see him looking more relaxed than in all the days since their return, some last measure of tension exorcised from his changeable eyes.

"Back to taking care of me?" Sherlock murmured, fond affection in his voice.

John threw the flannel in the hamper and settled in beside Sherlock, pulling his languid body up against his side, entangling their limbs and pulling the duvet up to cover them both.

"Always," he said.

* * *

John opened his eyes and Sherlock was there, pale face beautiful in the streetlight filtering through the curtains, grey eyes gazing at him in open adoration.

"Come here, love," John said, opening his arms, and Sherlock nestled into his embrace as if he were meant to be there.

John nuzzled into Sherlock's neck, breathing in his scent. "Don't leave me," he mumbled.

"Never," Sherlock replied, kissing his temple.

John sighed in happiness. "Am I dreaming?" he finally asked muzzily.

Sherlock leaned in, his breath puffing hot in John's ear, and then...

"Ow!" John jolted to full awareness, clapping a protective palm over his earlobe. "You  _bit_  me, you enormous nutter!"

Sherlock reared back, looking startled at John's response.

"I undersood that mild activation of nocireceptors was traditional in assisting one between distinguishing full awareness from dreamstates."

John rubbed his wounded earlobe. "I think a pinch is the traditional — no, don't pinch me, you git!" he added, fending off Sherlock's reaching hands. "I'm awake, okay!" He lay back down, shaking his head in exasperation.  _"Jesus."_

Sherlock lay back down also, insinuating himself back into John's arms. His hand tickled John's side as he began to rub insistently up against John's hip, half-hard and growing harder by the moment. "Since you're awake now..." he rumbled in his most seductive tone of voice.

John laughed, even as he turned toward Sherlock, hand sliding down to cup his arse and pull him in closer.

"Oh  _am_  I?" he asked sarcastically. "I wonder why." He nuzzled into Sherlock's cheek a little. "Tosser," he said fondly.

"Idiot," Sherlock replied back equally fondly, licking his way into John's mouth.

"Mmmm..." John said, grinding into Sherlock with a slow, delicious roll of his hips. "Berk."

Sherlock peppered kisses along John's jaw, finally sucking the injured earlobe into his mouth. "Sentimental fool," he accused, whispering the words into John's ear like an endearment.

With a heave of his body John flipped them, settling himself between Sherlock's legs. He smiled down at Sherlock before placing a gentle kiss on his lips. "My love."

Sherlock hummed in happiness, chasing John's mouth, capturing his lips in a deeper, fierce kiss.

"My John."

**Works inspired by this one:**

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